The Last Prisoner
by Alan and Nicole Corran
Summary: [Finished] A girl, no more than a skeleton, lay stretched on her side on the cell’s floor, naked and covered in ugly bruises. Her waistlength brown hair hid her face—the only sign that she was still alive was the shallow rise a fall of her chest... R
1. Beneath the Static

_**Author's Note:** This is Nicole speaking—my first story that I finally got up the courage to post. I am a Star Wars fan but by no means an expert; so if any problems or inconsistencies pop up in my story that bug you out of your mind, please don't hesitate to inform me. But …be nice._

Beneath the Static

Lars Welk pulled his modified INCOM Y-4 transport, _Salvage IV_, out of hyperspace and swore. Swiveling his chair toward the navicomputer, he called over his shoulder to his first mate, a sterile Selonian female, who was hunched over a tiny worktable in the main cargo hold that comprised most of the ship, cataloging their latest haul. "Hey, Shirra!"

"What?" she barked.

Lars turned back to the cockpit's view port, his scarred face furrowing into a frown. "Those coordinatesthey were for empty space right?" Lars and Shirra were in the somewhat innocuous business of salvage, scrounging every usable part off of the hundreds of wrecks floating through space and selling them to whoever was interested. The war between the Empire and the Rebels had been good for businessand even now that it was over, he and Shirra still managed to get lucky once in a while. On the outskirts of the Imperial sector, they had come across an abandoned transport ship, another INCOM Y-4, complete with a pair of trashed AT-ST's. After a haul like that, they liked to find a nice, quiet piece of space to count their treasure. Lars ran a finger down a particularly deep scar that cut across his right cheek and mouth; salvage work was not always easy…or safe. More than stars filled the view port.

Shirra's voice floated up the ladder, harsh, annoyed. "Yeah, why?"

"It's not empty."

Something clattered in the back, and the sound of clawed feet on metal treads echoed through the ship. Shirra burst into the cockpit, her brown fur slightly ruffled. She stood behind the pilot's seat, her keen eyes staring out into space. A low, throaty hiss fluttered the hair on Lars' head: a Selonian swear.

Suspended in the stars before them, about four or five kilometers away, was a spider web of durasteel and atmospheric domes surrounding gray, square buildings.

"Looks like a prison," Shirra hissed.

"Looks Imperial," Lars shot back and began turning the ship around. The Imps may have lost the war, but that didn't mean he was prepared to take on an entire base full of them. The _Salvage IV_ had only one turret, rarely used, to ward off the occasional pirate.

"Wait," Shirra said softly, placing one clawed hand on his shoulder. Her brown eyes glittered. "It looks deserted."

Lars leaned forward, studying the floating prison. The power was off…a large chunk of the durasteel arm connecting two domes was torn awayindeed it did look like a relic, abandoned by the Empire after some forgotten battle.

"Think of what's inside." Shirra barred her sharp teeth in the semblance of a smile. "A whole station's worth of salvage."

Lars could feel a greedy smirk tugging at his lipsa haul like that could cover him for an entire year at least. There was still some room in the _Salvage IV_'s hull, and the rest could be towed behind the ship with the tractor beam he'd nabbed from a Star Destroyer they'd found a year ago. But, still, he hesitated, his hand rubbing the scar on his right cheek again. That tractor beam had almost cost him his lifehe didn't underestimate the Imps. Something was not right.

The Selonian dug her claws into his shoulder. Lars shook his head, clearing it. "Yeah, right." He turned the _Salvage IV_ back to the station and hit the accelerator. Static crackled over the comm. unit, and Shirra's ears flattened.

"Did you hear that?"

"What…the static?" Lars had already shrugged off his misgivings. The static was nothing to worry about—happened a lot around the wrecks of ships. The comlink had gone nuts when they'd cruised through the remains of Alderaan, looking for leftovers.

"No, the…" But Shirra was cut off by a low, fervent whisper almost consumed by the static: _Help._

Lars jumped and glanced at Shirra who was gripping his shoulder even tighter. "What was that?"

She shook her head, pointing numbly out the view port. Lars faced forward and swore. A gray cloud of TIEs, like a hundred horrid insects, was heading straight for them.

A cold, mechanical voice floated over the com: "You are trespassing on restricted Imperial space…"

"Fucking hell!" Lars yanked the Y-4 around so hard that the ship groaned in protest, the central computer bleeping loudly. Shirra was already at the navicomputer, bringing up the coordinates of the nearest Republic base. He forced the sluggish ship through a few evasive maneuvers. "You ready yet, Shirra?" The Selonian nodded.

"Punch it!" The stars blurred, leaving the TIEs chasing only empty space.


	2. An Unusual Report

_**Author's Note:** Reviews are always welcome, you know. And I don't own Star Wars just my characters yada yada yada…_

An Unusual Report

"Sir." The communications officer sounded bored.

Vice Admiral Mark Harris didn't look up from his desk or stop typing on his personal computer. The pile of "paper"-work that went along with the day-to-day running of a New Republic base had finally grown to large to ignore. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, we have just received an unusual report from the captain of a salvage freighter," the lieutenant huffed, clearly annoyed that he even had to repeat the story, but Harris was not a man to overlook the improbable—such reports were to be brought straight to him. They broke up the tedium of postwar "peace keeping." Even his base, orbiting high above Belkadan on the farthest fringes of nowhere, got its share of crazies with doomsday theories and knowledge of secret Imperial bases—most of which (if they existed at all) had been destroyed ages ago or taken over by pirates and smugglers. _Still_, Harris figured,_ this close to Imperial space there's no telling what a few crazies could find._ He was willing to waste a frigate's time if it meant the chance to annoy a few Imps. The Senate called him a warmonger—one of their nicer terms for him.

The Vice Admiral stopped typing and looked up at Lieutenant Cracknar, a Mon Calamarian with sickly pink skin, who was standing at attention, saluting. Harris toyed with the idea of letting him stay that way but instead returned the salute. "At ease."

Cracknar lowered his fin-like hand but stayed stiff. When he remained silent, Harris growled, "Well?"

The Calamarian sniffed and raised his head a bit higher, his bulbous eyes flashed with a hint of hauteur. Harris remembered why he didn't care for the esteemed Lt. Cracknar: _He's a fucking prick. How did I get stuck with the one Mon Cal with his head shoved up his own ass?_ The lieutenant must have noticed the murderous glint in his superior's eyes because he cleared his throat with a watery gurgle and repeated the story of the _Salvage IV_'s captain.

* * *

Harris leaned back in his chair and folded his thick arms across his even thicker chest. An upstart ensign had once made the unfortunate mistake of comparing him to a Gamorrean, and the description (though apt) had not been appreciated. The ensign was rumored to have been marooned on Gamorr—no one had heard from him since. Now, Vice Admiral Harris's eyes gleamed with an inner fire that drove away any resemblance to the dull, piggish creatures. _If it's true…_ His gaze fell on the wall of military honors awarded to him for bravery and daring in the fight against the Empire. _They didn't call me a "warmonger" then._ He knew there was probably some protocol he was breaking—he considered informing his superiors about the tip, but decided against it. _I'll make it easy for the damn bureaucrats. They won't have to argue about attacking the base—just my decision. _He smirked. _They'll love that._

The comlink on his desk beeped. "Yes?"

Cracknar's voice gurgled across the line, sharp and peeved. "Lars Welk and Shirra Hirss have arrived as ordered,_ Vice_ Admiral."

"Good. Send them in." He ran a hand across his bald scalp and looked eagerly toward the door, already formulating a plan of attack on the Imp's prison.

Harris beamed at the human and Selonian who strode into his office. He liked the look of them: Welk, a short man who looked like he'd been attacked by a krayt dragon, and Hirss, a slender Selonian with sharp, confidant eyes who stood protectively close to her companion. Of course, they could have been Hutts for all he cared—they were his salvation, messengers sent by the Gods of War.

"So you're the two I have to thank for interrupting the peaceful little existence I have going here." Lars and Shirra shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond, but Harris just stood and offered them his hands, laughing. Lars returned his powerful handshake without wincing, but Shirra barely touched the proffered hand, uncomfortable with the human custom and especially the smiling man before her.

"Thank you for taking us seriously…um, sir," Lars said, clearing his throat. After the cold reception the Mon Cal Lieutenant had given their news, he and Shirra had been surprised (to say the least) to be invited aboard the station to meet with the Vice Admiral.

Harris waved the statement away. "Now, I got the basic story from Lt. Tight-Ass Cracknar, but I want to hear all the grimy details—anything that could help with the assault."

"Assault?" Lars Welk looked shocked.

"Yes…assault. Nothing big: a Nebulon-B frigate, a squad of fighters, a company of troops—the best naturally…"

"Don't you…I don't know…have to report…I mean…there's a cease-fire isn't there?"

The Vice Admiral frowned at the scarred human and raised a black eyebrow. "Let's not drag politics into this. You honestly expected me just to report your claim to my superiors? Without investigating the validity first? That's all I'm going to do: investigate. And if we should _happen _to be attacked, we'll fight back. _Understand_?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now," Harris continued, leaning forward, "details."

It was Shirra who spoke first, closing her eyes: "The prison was comprised of five blocks—four forming a square around the fifth. They were connected by durasteel arms, walkways, I imagine, and each was surrounded by an atmospheric bubble."

"Any weak points?"  
"Yes," the Selonian continued, "one of the arms connecting two of the outer blocks was broken off—and I think one of the atmospheric domes wasn't working."

Vice Admiral Harris almost giggled in delight. "Excellent! And you also mentioned TIEs—how many?"

"Well, we didn't stop to count them," Lars broke in, "but it looked like a few squadron's worth."

"So nothing my fighters can't handle…good." Harris fell silent, strategies whirring inside his head.

"There's something else," Shirra hissed softly.

Startled from his plotting by her unexpected tone, Harris peered closer at the Selonian. Her brown eyes were tinged with worry. "Yes?"

She lashed her tail. "We intercepted a call for help from a girl inside the prison."

Now it was Lars' turn to start. "Girl? How do you know it was a girl?" He turned to Harris who was watching interestedly. "We hit a patch of static when we got near the base…looking for salvage…and it sounded like someone said 'help' underneath the static, but who knows what it was."

Shirra's ears flattened, and she smacked Lars upside the head. "Don't be stupid—you heard her just as well as I did…" She broke off and started muttering about "pathetic human senses." Lars rubbed his head.

Harris blocked them both out. _A rescue mission…perfect.

* * *

_

Shirra was ignoring Lars, staring sullenly out at the stars as the _Salvage VI_ left the pull of Belkadan's gravity.

"I said I was sorry, Shirra," Lars huffed from the pilot's seat.

She turned up her pointed nose, growling softly. She wasn't really mad at him anymore—well, not very mad at least. Her upbringing in a colony on Selonia had taught her to value the good of the whole over herself. She snuck a glance at Lars who was readying the ship for its jump into hyperspace. Humans were selfish creatures—she still couldn't believe that Lars had disregarded the call for help, but then, he was Lars, ignoring any information he deemed unnecessary, and he was her substitute for a colony, even if he was _male._

Lars noticed her look and he grinned sheepishly at her. "Forgive me?"

Shirra sighed. "Yes, but…" She was still worried about the girl—something about her voice had chilled Shirra to the core. She felt only slightly consoled by the fact that Vice Admiral Harris had promised to give his best squad the mission of finding her…some sort of knights.

"But what?"

"What if _I_ called for help?"

Lars reached over and rubbed the soft, brown fur on her shoulder, his eyes serious. "I'd come to your rescue, sweetheart." He laughed at the disgusted look that flashed across Shirra's face.

"I'm _sterile,_" Shirra snarled, pushing his hand away, then one side of her mouth quirked. "But thanks."

"Anytime, lover," Lars laughed as the modified INCOM Y-4 shot into hyperspace.


	3. Knight

_**Author's Note: **Still don't own Star Wars…_

Knight

"All right, boys," Vice Admiral Harris addressed the company of 144 soldiers arrayed before him, "we have a little reconnaissance mission for you in the Unknown Regions. You know what that means, right?" The soldiers laughed, nudging each other and winking. They'd been on "reconnaissance" missions before—and it always meant they got to kick some Imperial butt.

Only one squad at the back of the hall slightly separated from the rest of the company remained silent. Their leader was a tall, slender young man who stood with a predatorial grace at the head of his men. His raven hair was precisely three millimeters long and accentuated his angular face and piercing blue eyes that sparkled with deadly intelligence. Sgt. Jonathan Knight frowned. While he admired the Vice Admiral's bravery, he did not approve of Harris' almost obsessive need to fight or his casual disregard of the rules.

"Now," Harris continued, "you're going to _investigate_ the outrageous claim that an Imperial prison has somehow slipped past the notice of our esteemed New Republic…"

Jonathan glanced at his men, standing still and silent behind him, and suppressed a proud smirk. They had all been offered promotions and leadership positions of their own at one time or another, but each had refused, choosing to stay under his command. They were one of the few elite squads left in the Republic, skilled in infiltration and guerilla tactics. The other soldiers called them "The Knights" and enjoyed poking fun at the squad with good-natured puns (one of the worst ones was "What's a knight without a Force?"). Jonathan didn't mind as long as they stayed out his and his men's way.

"…Of course, if you do locate the so-called prison, you're commanding officers will take the proper course of action…as proper as I am…"

One of his men—Marcus—snorted. Jonathan had to agree. He doubted Harris would tell the rest of the company about the girl this whole operation was supposedly to rescue. The Vice Admiral had summoned him early this morning to discuss the delicate operation.

"Sgt. Knight, you have heard the news the salvage freighter brought in I presume?"

"Yes, sir."

"I won't ask you how you obtained the information, but I bet I still know something you don't."

Jonathan had doubted that—he had planted a bug in Lt. Cracknar's office ages ago (the Mon Cal would never find it and Jonathan didn't like surprises) and had been informed of the whole story the salvage captain had told the bigheaded communications officer. "Yes, sir."

Harris had laughed. "Well, there's supposedly a girl incarcerated in that prison who called for help. Those Imps are slacking off, and I want your men to rescue her and any other prisoners you find before those bastards have a chance to execute them."

"Yes, sir."

"And you won't have anyone to report to—you need to move ahead of the main company. Hopefully, we'll get you a different entrance point entirely. The rest of the troops will provide a nice distraction."

"Yes, sir."

Jonathan pulled himself back to the present. The troops were loading onto the Nebulon-B frigate _Blind Justice_. He turned to his men. "Let's go."

* * *

Number 314 awoke to the sound of stormtroopers running down the corridor, but she didn't open her eyes. She felt the cold metal beneath her naked, broken body vibrate with every footfall. Something was happening—somewhere in the facility, alarms were going off.

A glimmer of hope clutched at her heart, forcing her to draw in a shuddering breath. A tear slipped past her closed eyelids. _How can I still hope? _She had hoped last time too, hoped someone had finally come to save her.

She'd been in the examination room, crumpled by the computers that lined one entire wall when the report crackled over the intercom: an unidentified ship had just pulled out of hyperspace near the base. They'd at first thought it was an Imperial supply ship, but the signature was wrong. Number 314 had known then, known that she had to contact that ship—she dragged herself closer to the computers. There had to be some sort of communication device there, some way to call for help. The Doctor had laughed somewhere behind her, but she ignored him. Then something hit her shoulder and fell to the floor: it was his personal comlink.

"Go ahead," he sneered, amused that she was still fighting, "call for help."

She seized the device with trembling hands. "Please help me," she rasped, the comlink a breath away from her cracked lips, "Help."

"Dr. Rave, the TIEs have been deployed."

Number 314 barely heard the voices that floated through the exam room; her hands squeezed the comlink painfully. "Please…please…"

The Doctor said something. A stormtrooper replied.

Her heart hammered behind her broken ribs.

"Sir, the ship has fled back into hyperspace."

The sob she'd been holding back broke past her lips then. She could feel the Doctor's smirking eyes on her back. He strode across the room and knelt down beside her. She didn't look at him—she wouldn't let him see her cry…not again, never again.

His lips hovered beside her ear. "I thought you were broken, my beautiful one." He had beaten her then, beaten her into blissful oblivion.

Now, she lay quietly on the floor of her cell, feeling her body die. A smile tugged at her lips. _I'm going home…home…Earth.

* * *

_

The space battle was short. Most of the TIEs had just given up or been destroyed without much of a fight. The _Hammer Stroke_ turned to the Imperial base.

Inside her hull, hunkered down in a captured Lamba shuttle, Sgt. Knight and his men listened to the reports flying across the com.

"Another seven TIEs have surrendered."

"Any idea yet why?"

"As far as I can tell, they're just done—tired, demoralized. Beats me why…"

"I want them all interrogated as soon…"

"…approaching the base…"

The shuttle's engines shuttered to life, and Jonathan could feel the ship leave the _Hammer Stroke_'s hanger. He signaled his men to prepare to board.

"Sgt. Knight?" The pilot's voice floated from the cockpit.

"Yes?"

"We're going to drop you at the break in the outside arm."

"Wait," Jonathan replied, summoning the image of the base to his mind. The prisoners were most likely kept in the outer blocks, but if the girl they were after was important, she would be in the center near the leadership. That's where they would need head. "How close can you get us to the center block?"

"There's a small docking bay on one of the arms connected to the center, but there are sure to be more stormtroopers…"

"Take us there."

"Acknowledged."

Stormtroopers would only be a small problem, and he doubted there would be many. They would be moving to defend the point where the frigate would unload her troops. He surveyed his men. Their faces were set into emotionless masks—they were ready. Marcus, a heavily muscled man with shaggy brown hair, looked up at him.

"Any idea what's in there, sir?" he asked.

Jonathan shook his head. "We'll know soon."

Beloda, a Klatoonian with fierce eyes and a permanent scowl, whispered, "Someone who needs a knight."


	4. On Level Three

_**Author's Note: **I don't own Star Wars…just my characters._

On Level Three

His shot hit the first stormtrooper in the chest, and Jonathan swung his blaster to target the second, but the stormtrooper had dropped his weapon and raised his arms in surrender.

"Since when do stormtroopers surrender?" Marcus hissed, moving past Sgt. Knight and thrusting the muzzle of his blaster under the stormtrooper's chin. Jonathan waved the rest of his team forward, and they automatically set up a perimeter, blocking both entrances of the long hall. He holstered his blaster and stood in front of the captured trooper, folding his arms across his chest.

"At ease, Marcus."

Marcus jammed the blaster into the trooper's throat once more before backing off.

Jonathan leaned menacingly toward the stormtrooper, noting that the man looked thin beneath his armor. "What is this place?" he asked.

"Imperial Alien Research Facility, sir."

"Where are the prisoners kept?"

"The one you are looking for is on level three, section seven in the center block." The stormtrooper nodded down the hall.

Jonathan's eyes narrowed. "How do you know who we're looking for?"

"She's the only one left."

Jonathan motioned for Marcus to keep an eye on the trooper and signaled to the rest of his men to circle in. He told them what the stormtrooper had said. They conferred in harsh whispers.

"Only one left?"

"Could be a trap."

"You think everything could be a trap, Jagger."

"What are we going to do with the stormtrooper?"

"We can't drag him along."

"Enough." Jonathan silenced his men with a withering look. He turned to a sandy-haired human. "Doug, you're hacking into the first computer terminal we find. I want to know exactly what we're walking into. As for the stormtrooper…" He strode over to where the trooper was being held at gunpoint by Marcus. With a swift uppercut, he knocked the prisoner unconscious. "We'll deal with him later."

* * *

"Everyone's been summoned to Block 4—we shouldn't meet any resistance getting to the girl. The stormtrooper didn't lie, a human female named Amara Richards is being held on level three, section 7 in cell 314A."

Jonathan heard the hesitation in Doug's voice. "But…?"

"That section is closest to the head doctor's personal quarters and a research command center of sorts. It's possible there will be someone there. We'll need to take them out first before they can harm any of the prisoners."

"So there are other prisoners?"

"Hundreds—only a few are registered as deceased."

"That'll complicate matters." Jonathan leaned over the man at the computer's shoulder, looking at the schematics of the Imperial Alien Research Facility. "Who's this head doctor?"

"Dr. Lucius Rave, has a lot of Imperial honors for his research into 'inferior alien anatomy.'" The picture of a middle-aged man with blond hair that fell past his cheekbones and smiling ice-blue eyes appeared on screen.

"So he finds new and improved ways to torture and kill."

"Sounds like a nice guy," Marcus said coming up to look at the screen, "looks like a nice guy too."

Jonathan shoved Marcus away. "All right, Doug, blind the security on level three and our route there. While you're at it, confuse the Imps as much as you can—cause a little chaos. Marcus, keep your mouth shut. Beloda…" He waved the Klatoonian over. "I want you to stay here with Doug and Jagger. Once Doug's done…follow us."

Beloda nodded, clutching his blaster's grip reflexively.

"The rest of you," Jonathan said, raising his own blaster, "follow me."

* * *

Dr. Lucius Rave leaned farther back in the uncomfortable office chair and rested his feet on his sterile metal desk. So the rebels had finally discovered IARF—it'd been fun while it lasted. He grinned at the holovid he was watching: one of the vids he'd taken while raping Amara—there were dozens in her file, but this one was his favorite. It was from when she still fought back. He had already destroyed most of the files on his experiments and rehearsed the speech he would give the invaders: how he had been forced to torture those poor creatures lying dead in their cells, how he'd tried to save them and been threatened with death. He didn't see the Sergeant standing in the doorway.

Jonathan Knight stood frozen for a moment, stunned. He'd heard screams and sounds of a struggle coming from the room, and now he saw it was just a vid of a girl being raped. He controlled the urge to shoot the man watching it. Dr. Rave noticed him and instantly flipped off the vid. He stood and raised his hands, a smirk touching his lips.

"Poor girl," he said, "lovely too. Come to rescue her or for a free ride?"

Jonathan could feel the bile rising in the back of his throat. The _sanity_ in the doctor's eyes chilled him to the bone. He aimed his blaster at Dr. Rave's head.

"You look like an honorable man," Lucius sighed, "You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man who surrendered would you?"

But Jonathan didn't get a chance to answer. Marcus strode past him into the room and bashed the butt of his gun into the doctor's face. Dr. Rave crumpled to the floor. "Fucking sick-o."

Jonathan stared at the unconscious doctor, then told Marcus to guard him and turned on his heel and strode out of the room in the direction of the cellblock. He was beginning to think they weren't going to find hundreds of prisoners. He was right.

The stench hit him even before the door to section seven slid open. The cells stretched one hundred meters before him on his left and right. Most of the cells were filled with corpses in different stages of decomposition: Wookies, Rodians, Mon Cals…all dead. They looked like they'd been starved to death. The youngest member of his squad, a skinny kid they called Stick, threw up. Jonathan concentrated on finding cell 314A. When he finally did, he had to bite back the curse that rose to his lips.

A girl, no more than a skeleton, lay stretched on her side on the cell's floor, naked and covered in ugly bruises. Her waist-length brown hair hid her face—the only sign that she was still alive was the shallow rise a fall of her chest.

"Holy shit," one of his men whispered. Jonathan blasted open the lock. The girl didn't move. He went in a knelt beside her. Gently slipping his arms beneath her frail body, he cradled the girl to his chest and brushed the hair out of her face. He drew a shuddering breath. It was the girl from the holovid. Slowly, he stood with her in his arms. She stirred and mumbled something.

Jonathan barely heard the soft, venom-tinged words: "Fuck off."


	5. The First Cage

_**Author's Note: **Sydney…you made my day. I'll try to tone down the cussing (I'm always surprised that I make characters who seem to have to use profanity when I don't swear myself). Luckily, Amara is not that type of girl…she was just ready to die in that last chapter._

The First Cage

_Eleven months ago…_

Amara Richards woke up in a cage crammed with at least twenty other humans. If she believed in God, she wondered whether she'd be thanking Him for giving her a spot in the corner where there was better ventilation or cursing him for letting her get captured and stuck in the cage in the first place. Amara squeezed her eyes shut and leaned her head on one of the cold metal bars. At least, she assumed she'd been captured. All she could remember was walking home, and then…someone shoving her in the cage. In between…there was nothing. She scanned the other humans—a diverse mixture of ages, races, and sexes—they were beginning to wake up as well. _I doubt I'd volunteer for this._ Right now, it all seemed like a sick reality-TV show.

She turned around and peered into the dim space beyond the bars. A dozen other cages filled with a variety of strange creatures littered the windowless room. A group of what looked like giant weasels paced inside the closest cage. Some blue vaguely elephantine creatures sat quietly in another. Amara bit her lip—they looked familiar. Another cage held some reptilian creatures that hissed at her when they noticed her staring at them. She resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at them and instead turned her back on them, contenting herself with watching her fellow humans.

A lanky sixteen-year-old with pale red hair stood and stretched. "Congratulations, fellow Earthlings," he said with a sarcastic smile, "we've just discovered that, yes, there is life on other planets!"

Another redhead who looked like the boy's sister yanked him down. "Shut up, Jake. Why can't you be a pessimist like a normal person?" She nodded to the other people around them who were sobbing, praying, and jabbering in confusion and distress.

A large Italian woman whipped out her cell phone and attempted to make a call. Several others followed suit, furiously punching numbers and practically screaming into the receiver.

"Who are they going to call? 911?" Jake huffed, batting away his sister's hands as she tried to cover his mouth. "Can you imagine, Kat? Excuse me, operator, but I've been abducted by aliens and need immediate assistance…"

"Please don't start Jake…" Kat moaned.

"Maybe they have God's number—that might be helpful…"

Amara felt a gentle tug on her sleeve. A woman with thin, light brown hair cut in a bob and wide, brown eyes gazed sheepishly at her. Her body was that of a twenty-four-or twenty-five-year-old, but something in her eyes, the childish fear, hinted that her mind was no smarter than a six-year-old's. "'Scuse me," she whispered, biting her lip, "M-my name is Amy."

Amara dredged up her warmest smile. "Hello, Amy. I'm Amara."

"Amara." Amy rolled the new name around on her tongue until she was sure she would remember it. "That's a pretty name."

"You have a pretty name, too."

Amy blushed and scooted closer to Amara, leaning against her side. She was quiet for a moment, and Amara went back to inspecting the other captives. A balding man with glasses was conferring in a hushed voice with six other men, their faces intense.

"Um, Amara?" Amy asked.

"Yes?" The balding man made a slashing gesture across his throat.

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know where we are…so I can't even guess where we are going, Amy." The group of men seemed to have made a decision. They began whispering to the other prisoners around them.

"I told my mommy I'd be home before supper…." Amy's voice trembled, and Amara brought her full attention back to the scared adult-child cuddled against her.

"Are you scared?" she asked, wrapping an arm around Amy's shaking shoulders. Amy nodded. "Of what?"

"I'm lost. What if I can never find home?"

"Well, first of all, you don't have to worried about being lost anymore because I've found you." Amy brightened at that. "And second, I promise I'll help you find your way home."

"Really?"

"Really, but you have to do something for me as well."

Amy's face fell, and she clasped and unclasped her hands. "W-what?"

Amara smiled. "You'll have to help me find my way home too. Do you think you can do that?"

Amy was silent for a long time, thinking. Finally, she spoke, looking up into Amara's face: "I can help."

"That's all I'm asking—we'll stick together right?"

"Right." Amy beamed.

"Excuse me." Both Amy and Amara started. The balding man with glasses crouched in front of them. "You both speak English, correct?"

"Yes," Amara answered.

"Good," the man sighed, "look, we're going to try to bust out of here. One of the others has managed to communicate with those weasel-looking aliens, and they are also willing to mutiny if we can get them out. We'll need everyone's help…we don't know what we're up against, but the weasels seem confidant enough. Are you both willing to fight?"

"Of course, Mr.…" Amara began.

"Just call me Mendelssohn."

"All right, Mendelssohn, I'm willing to fight but…." Amara nodded at Amy who had begun to whimper.

Mendelssohn's brow furrowed. "How old are you…" He glanced at Amara who mouthed 'Amy.' "…Amy?"

"I'm supposed to be twenty-four," Amy mumbled without looking up, "but God accident'ly stuck my age…I've asked him to un-stick it a bunch of times."

"Great…a retard," Mendelssohn said, pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes were closed so he didn't see the vicious glare Amara threw at him. "Okay…we can deal with this—I'd hoped the youngest kid we had was that eleven-year-old, but…" He opened his eyes and pointed to Amara. "You are in charge of her and the other kids—they're eleven and twelve. You'll stay in this cage until the fighting dies down, okay? I hope we can get our hands on some weapons…if we do I'll make sure you get one." He paused and looked her up and down. Amara wondered if he was seeing her for the first time. She was nineteen, but was often mistaken for a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old because she was so short—scarcely over five feet. Her face looked young, too: small, heart-shaped and almost lost in her thick, shoulder-length brown hair. She kept her gray-green eyes carefully blank as the man scrutinized her. "How old are you anyway?"

"I'm in college...and to answer your next question: no, I have never held or fired a gun."

Mendelssohn sighed. "Fine—I can't really be picky." He turned to go.

"How, exactly, are you planning on getting out of this cage?"

The balding man turned and flashed Amara a slight smile. "Those idiots who abducted us (whoever they are) made two big mistakes. One: underestimating humans, and two: picking up an engineer—he says the cage is pretty shoddy, and we should be able to lift out some of the bars if we apply pressure to the right places. If we're lucky, our dear captors won't see what hit them. We'll pull a Cinquez."

Amara frowned as Mendelssohn moved back to his place. They were taking a big chance—the plan left more to luck than she liked. But what other options were there? Amara doubted that whoever had abducted them wanted to feed them cookie dough while giving them pedicures. Could they—could she—accept slavery…or worse? _No…_for once she had to agree that it was better to go down fighting Even if they won—she sighed. They might never get back to Earth. One of Amy's hands slid into hers, and Amara gave it a comforting squeeze. She was a natural loner, but it was nice to have someone to look out for—it kept her from worrying about herself.

Across the cage, Jake was trying to get his sister to laugh. "How can you be so glum, Kat? We are about to attack our invisible captors with the help of some giant rodents (and maybe those stuffed elephants) and take over something we can only assume is a spaceship. How cool is that!"


	6. Mutiny

_**Author's Note: **Longer chapter…this is still set in Amara's past, approximately 11 months before she is rescued. I don't own Star Wars just the characters I created._

Mutiny

The uprising aboard the Trandoshan slave ship _Devil's Claw_ was short and bloody. The _Claw_'s crew was outnumbered almost ten to one by the small army of humans, Selonians, Drackmarians, and several other species who had agreed to fight. But the Trandoshan slavers did have one big advantage: blasters. Once they realized what was happening, they mowed down whole groups before they were overtaken and killed. Kat died in the first round of shooting, and Jake could only stand, stunned, over her body before he was shot in the chest.

The large Italian woman somehow managed to take down one of the slavers with a dropped blaster she had recovered before another Trandoshan snapped her neck with his bare hands.

A huge chunk of the rebelling forces—including all of the Drackmarians—were killed when a well-placed shot blew up one of the Drackmarian's methane tanks.

A group of Selonians managed to fight their way into the ship's cockpit and battled tooth and claw for control. Mendelssohn figured they could handle themselves and signaled to the remaining humans (about ten in all, bloody and wild-eyed) and aliens to get weapons before they headed deeper into the ship to pick off any remaining Trandoshans. The humans scooped up blasters from the dead and dying that littered the hall. One thin blond girl collapsed to her knees beside the charred corpse of an older woman—wisps of blond hair still fluttered around her blackened face. Mendelssohn sighed and pulled the shaking girl to her feet. He thrust a blaster into her hands and pushed her in the direction of the cargo room, now full of empty cages and a few creatures unwilling or unable to fight.

"Take that to Amara," he said before turning and pulling another man to his feet. Mendelssohn barked orders to his tattered army, startling them out of their shocked stupor and forcing them to look at him instead of the bodies twisted at their feet. "We can't help them now, my friends—we have to press on. We can win!"

The thin girl watched them walk away and clutched the blaster to her chest. Sounds of the battle still raging in the cockpit filtered slowly into her mind. She watched the rebels until they disappeared around a dark corner. She lowered her head and stared at her mother's body. In the cockpit, someone shrieked and growled—blaster fire. The girl shook her long blond hair away from her face and raced back to the cage-room.

* * *

Grodossk ducked behind the _Claw_'s hyperdrive. It was not in his nature to run from a fight or hide, but the humans chasing him had to be some sort of demons. _How'd they get out of their cage?_ He could hear their footsteps. They were getting closer. He balled his hands into fists, his sharp claws bit into his palms. The pain calmed him, and he was able to think. Unfortunately, all he was able to think about was the multitude of ways he would kill his captain, Drissk, for harvesting the humans in the first place. _It was an unknown, unexplored planet—and he lands like he owns the place and picks up some natives, a nice little sampling in fact. Who cares if they have a taste for mutiny?_ Grodossk had already decided that the wimpy looking creatures were not normal humans…maybe not human at all. And he wanted nothing more to do with them except to destroy every last one.

He heard them run into the engine room—they would find him soon. Grodossk knew he was going to die, and he wasn't about to fight fair. He reached into a pocket on the thigh of his orange flight suit and pulled out a thermal detonator.

* * *

The Selonian lashed at Drissk with her tale, but he dodged out of the way, placing the pilot's chair between them. Her chestnut fur bristled. He fired his blaster, missed, and fired again this time striking her in the shoulder. The Selonian shrieked and rushed at him, her claws tore across his face, blinding his left eye and shredding the collar of his yellow flight suit, before he kicked her hard in the stomach, sending her crashing into the control panel. He lifted his blaster again—the red fire tore through her stomach, disintegrating fur, flesh, and bone. Drissk roared triumphantly and then strode out of the cockpit, making a mental note to skin the Selonian later. First, however, he was going to take his ship back.

* * *

"Who's winning, Amara?" Amy whispered, trembling uncontrollably at every blaster shot and scream that echoed through the ship. She took an anxious step toward Amara who was standing outside the cage trying to convince her two other charges that they were safer in the cage than out. Complicating matters was the fact that the two boys (although of Turkish descent) spoke German and could only understand a little English.

"I don't know, Amy…" Amara replied, glancing up at Amy who was a head taller than her standing.

The boys made a run for the door, their hands outstretched and held like guns. Amara blocked their way—how could she make them understand that this was more than a game? "Nein! Nein!" she pleaded, summoning every ounce of German she had ever learned in school, "Ihr musst hier bleiben! Hier ist sicher." The boys paused and glanced at each other, then at her.

"Unsere Mutti…" one began.

Then Amara understood—they wanted to help their mother, to save her. She noticed the way their hands clenched at their sides whenever a particularly horrible shriek or burst of fire reverberated down the hall. She didn't know what to tell them. All she could do was hold out her hands to them in a sad half-pleading, half-commiserating gesture. "Bitte…"

A blond-haired girl dashed into the room carrying a blaster. She skidded to a stop in front of Amara. Her face was pale and gaunt, her emerald eyes haunted. She thrust the blaster into Amara's hands without a word and then promptly burst into tears and fell to the floor.

Amara stared blankly at the blaster for a moment and considered setting it down, but then she noticed the hungry looks on the boys' faces and thought it was safer if she held onto it. She gingerly clutched it in her right hand and knelt down beside the sobbing girl. "What's happened?" The girl didn't look up. She let out a sound that started as a scream and ended as a wrenching sob. "Please…I can't help if you don't tell me what happened. Are we winning?"

The girl sucked in a breath. "We were…" she managed to choke out.

Amara bit her lip—she didn't like pressing the girl, but… "What do you mean 'were'?"

"Before he sent me back…I don't know about now."

"How many have died?"

The girl shook her head and sobbed harder, refusing to answer any more questions. Amara sighed, lifted the girl to her feet, and helped her back into the cage where Amy waited like a mother hen, attempting to consol the girl with whispered nothings. "It'll be okay…Amara—she'll help you find your way home…she'll protect us…I'll help you too…"

Somewhere in the bowels of the ship, a thermal detonator went off.

The explosion knocked Amara off her feet and slammed her against the bars of an empty cage. She was only vaguely aware of the floor beneath her…the blaster still clutched in her hand…all she wanted to do was go to sleep and ease the pounding in her head…she tasted copper… The sound of clawed feet on metal snapped her awake. Slowly, she raised her head and forced her eyes to focus on the tall creature standing two meters away from her. It reminded her of Godzilla (if Godzilla shrunk, lost its tale, and wore a yellow flight suit that is). Amara shook her head and attempted to rise. Pain shot through her arms, legs, and chest—she rolled onto her back, gasping. The boys were moaning somewhere to her left. She couldn't hear Amy or the blond girl.

A scream ripped the air.

Galvanized into action—all pain forgotten, Amara flipped onto her stomach and forced her legs beneath her. She stood too fast and swayed, catching herself on the bars of the cage. She still held the blaster in her right hand. She faced the Godzilla-lizard-man.

His left eye was swollen shut, and he seemed to be grinning at her; his lips pulled taught against jagged teeth. It took her mind a moment to register why. Her vision blurred then cleared again. In his right hand, the lizard-man held up the eleven-year-old boy who clawed vainly at the hand clutching his throat and struggled to escape the vice-like grip, his legs kicked wildly. The other boy he held by the shirt collar and easily kept from running away. Behind the lizard, two motionless bodies were crumpled inside the human's cage.

"No…let them go…please…"

The lizard's grin widened. He crushed the eleven-year-old's neck. The boy's body went limp and was tossed aside like a rag doll. But his brother, taking advantage of the Trandoshan's distraction, ripped his shirt from lizard-man's grasp. He bounded toward Amara, tears streaking down his face. He never made it. In one fluid motion, the lizard swept out his blaster and shot the boy between the shoulder blades. The boy's mouth formed an "o" of surprise, his eyes widened, and Amara noticed that they were a strange dark violet color—almost black—before he fell dead at her feet.

Amara raised her gray-green eyes, cool as forest fog, to meet the lizard's red one. She watched him swing his blaster upwards, almost in slow motion, aiming for her head. But she was already firing into the creature's broad chest. Her finger clenched the trigger reflexively—she couldn't stop firing even after the lizard-man crumpled to the floor, a black hole in his chest. The blaster grew hot beneath her hands.

"Amara, stop! Please stop! It's dead…it's dead…"

Amy's frightened voice sliced through the fog in Amara's head. She jerked her hands away from the blaster, letting it fall to the floor with a dull clatter. She swayed, but gentle hands caught her and enveloped her in a comforting hug. Amara gazed with morbid fascination at the red puddle blossoming beneath the violet-eyed boy.

Amy dragged Amara away from the bodies, moving to a small clear space by the door. She sat down and pulled Amara into her lap and rocked her like she would one of her doll's back home. "It's okay…it's okay…" she chanted over and over.

Amara finally met Amy's eyes, and was surprised to see a frightened child staring back at her. For a moment, she had almost believed she was home being held by her mother after a particularly ruff day. But this was not her mother stroking her hair, it was a child doing all she knew how to do to comfort someone who should have been comforting her. Amara broke the embrace and stood up. She kept her eyes focused on Amy.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Amy stood. "My head hurts, but yes I'm all right." She glanced nervously at the girl still lying in the cage. "I…I think I hit her."

Amara entered the cage and bent to examine the girl. Her spine was bent at an awkward angle—broken. "She's dead."

Amy began to cry, silent tears coursed down her face. "It's my fault."

"No, no—you didn't mean to. You didn't make the ship jerk like that…didn't cause the blast…"

"But I…"

"No 'buts,'" Amara interrupted, pressing Amy's hands, "It was not your fault, understand?"

Amy nodded, but didn't look convinced.

"Now," Amara continued, glancing around the room (she tried to ignore the bodies on the floor and the blue elephants who didn't fight piled on one side of their cage, apparently dead), "we are going to find the others…"

A tremendous crash threw her across the room again, smashing her into the durasteel wall, but this time she didn't get up.

* * *

The Wookie howled and struggled against the solid durasteel restraints holding him down on the operating table as Dr. Lucius Rave made tiny slits in the Wookie's lungs with a slim but wicked looking knife. Air hissed out of the slits, and the Wookie was forced to stop howling and gasped for breath. Dr. Rave smiled—it would take the creature a few hours to die at least. He wondered if he should speed up the process, but no, another experiment could cloud the results of the first. He'd had enough fun for one day—simply shaving the Wookie had been pleasure enough. Why hadn't he thought to do that before? He shrugged and began fusing shut the opening in the creature's chest cavity.

But the sound of crunching, breaking metal followed by the violent shaking of the entire research facility, startled him and he lost his balance. His hand squelched inside the Wookie, tearing vital organs. The creature died with a low wail.

Dr. Rave removed his hand and gave it a disgusted shake, and then, seeing that the specimen was dead, stabbed his knife into one of its blank eyes. Furious, he strode across the room and punched the com with his bloody hand. "What happened?" he seethed.

The perpetually nervous voice of the communications officer, a young Second Lieutenant, crackled into the room: "Ahem…um…we're still figuring that out, sir, but it appears that a ship…" he paused as if listening to someone, "ah, yes…a Trandoshan slave ship dropped out of hyperspace and slammed into us."

"Damage?"

"Bridge 6 is severed, sir, and Block 2's atmosphere is barely holding…we are evacuating the area."

Lucius's rage had already calmed, but now he burned with curiosity. "What of the ship? Any signs of life?"

The communication's officer paused, then: "We are sending a boarding party now. Instructions?"

Lucius's blue eyes twinkled. "I want everyone on board the vessel taken alive and brought to Holding Room 3, in section 7, Center Block. Understood?"

"Acknowledged—I will update you of any new developments."

Dr. Rave ordered a clean-up crew to the operating room and then turned from the intercom and practically ran to the catwalks that crisscrossed over Holding Room 3. He wanted to see his new specimens as soon as they were brought in.


	7. Question and Answer

_**Author's Note: **Here is where I start switching between Then and Now. Sorry for the late update. I was busy (damn you Minesweeper!).And I don't own Star Wars._

Question and Answer

_Now…_

Number 314 drifted in and out of consciousness. She listened to the soft thump of her heart, felt the rise and fall of her chest, and knew she was not dead. She even felt…comfortable. _What new trick is this?_ Someone walked to her side—the soft footsteps pounded into her head—but she didn't open her eyes. Instead, she willed herself back into the blackness flickering at the edges of her mind. _He can't find me there._

"Has she woken yet?"

"No—but she cries out in her sleep sometimes. Most of it is unintelligible, but occasionally she moans something about 'violet eyes' or someone named 'Amy.'"

"Can't you help her?"

"Physically—yes, she's recovering. But mentally…I don't know. Personally, I don't think she wants to wake up."

"Why not?"

"You saw how badly she was treated, Sgt. Knight. Would you want to face the world after that?"

"But she's safe now…"

"Does she know that? I don't think so."

"So…what can we do?"

"We need someone who can get inside her head and draw her out."

"But who…?"

"A Jedi."

The voices whispered through the air above her. They sounded so…different, like… Number 314 shoved the memories away, letting the voices fade into the rushing sound in her ears. _Everyone with that voice dies._

_

* * *

Then…_

"Name? …_Name?_"

"Amara Richards"

"Age?"

"19"

"Home planet?"

Amara chewed her bottom lip and glowered at the officer across the table from her in the Imperial equivalent of a bare-bulb interrogation room. The gray-walled room was sparsely furnished with only two chairs and a black slab that passed for a table and slid out of one of the walls. Sterile, white light glared from the ceiling. Behind her interrogator, a black plain of opaque glass glimmered—an observation booth.

"What is the name of your planet?" The officer rapped the table impatiently with his knuckles.

Amara had been shocked when she'd been hauled to her feet by a pair of stormtroopers who found her unconscious in the slave ship's cargo hold. All she could do was gape at them—she was dreaming, delirious, but a glimpse of the violet-eyed boy's body being kicked by another stormtrooper had thrown her back into reality. She'd known only two things in that moment: protect Amy, protect Earth. As far as she could remember, the Imperials were like high-tech Nazis—she could only hope she had fallen into their universe at the end of the movie.

"_Planet?_"

_Lie…_Amara struggled to remember any planet mentioned in the movies. _Alderaan—blown up. Hoth—that was the ice planet right? Corascant…_

A door hissed open, and Amara found herself staring into the impossibly light blue eyes—_like a blind man's_—of a middle-aged man in a white lab coat. He raised one corner of his thin mouth in a cool smirk and leaned across the table. Amara leaned away. "Perhaps number 314 doesn't know the name of her planet. Is that it?"

Amara pressed her lips into a thin line and glared at the newcomer—he had to have been watching from the black window. He was obviously in charge of this operation—he radiated cruel confidence.

"Well, if that's the case, can you at least describe where you lived or what the stars looked like, 314?"

"My name is Amara," she hissed.

"And I am Dr. Rave," the doctor countered, "but let me tell you something, number 314, I don't give a damn who you are right now. I want to know where you're from. Is that clear?" His grin widened menacingly.

"Crystal."

"_Well_…where is your planet?"

"Space."

"_Where_ in space?"

"In a solar system somewhere in a galaxy," Amara replied with a sweet smile.

Dr. Rave glared back. "What is the name of your system's star?"

"Sun."

"What do you call your planet?"

"'Home'…sometimes 'World.'"

Dr. Rave rounded the table, his face livid, and grabbed her arm, nearly crushing it, and yanked her to her feet. Amara's smile wavered but she managed to keep it plastered on her face. "Perhaps your friend will be more willing to talk."

Amara paled. _Amy._

The Doctor pressed a button on the wall. Four stormtroopers filed in. "Take 314 back to her cell." He glanced at Amara; his eyes glinted. "And make sure she has company."

* * *

Heads—human heads with their eyes rolled back in their sockets lined the walls of her cage, strung up by their hair…and she recognized them. _Jake, Kat, Mendelssohn…_Only the violet-eyed boy still stared straight ahead—straight at her. Amara huddled in the center of her cell, her knees brought up to her chest, her face in her hands. _Don't tell them anything, Amy—don't tell them anything.

* * *

_

The sound of his own booted feet clacking across the spotless metal floor calmed Dr. Lucius Rave as he paced the laboratory, occasionally stopping to study the data scrolling across one of the large computer screens at the front of the room. Neither of the surviving humans had talked. The first one…she was smart. It would take much more than idle threats to coax any information out of her. The second, however, was so stupid all she could do was whimper and cry in response to his questions.

He'd almost killed 315 (he had no use for damaged specimens), but she'd kept asking for 'Amara.' He paused. _Even damaged tools can prove useful._ He continued pacing—he needed to find out where these humans came from. The navigation records on the _Claw_ were pulverized, useless. _Here I have two purebred humans from a world completely untainted by alien scum—and I can't find it._ Though Dr. Rave would never admit it, even his genetic structure was corrupted by un-human components from ancestors who had been less than scrupulous in choosing their life partners. He had long ago given up hope of finding one untouched person in the galaxy. Now he had two, perhaps a whole planet full for the Empire to begin anew upon.

I punched a few buttons on the massive desk before the screens. A live feed from the security camera monitoring his new specimens filled every screen. He watched the tearful reunion of 314 and 315 with a dark smirk. _I was right to let 315 live. She is the key._

_

* * *

Now…_

Jonathan couldn't sleep so he wandered the halls of the space station, haunting the medical wing in particular. He had requested to see the entire holovid record Rave kept on Amara and been told he would have to wait until it could be fully processed by the Republic's War Crimes Commission. Now…he found himself standing outside her door. His hand hovered above the door controls a moment before he opened the door. Amara lay on her back, almost lost in the white sheets twisted about her waist; her pale skin appeared icy in the faint starlight glimmering into the room from the large rectangular window stretched across the length of the far wall. He went and stood beside her bed. Her eyes flickered behind her eyelids.

He took one of her thin hands in his own and pressed it gently. "Amara," he whispered leaning close to her ear. "Amara…"

Her head turned imperceptibly toward his voice, but she didn't open her eyes or answer


	8. Oz

_**Author's Note: **Fun Fact—part of this interrogation scene was inspired by a dream I had a while ago. Anyway, I don't own Star Wars, just my characters._

Oz 

_Then…_

The second blow from the stormtrooper's fist knocked Amara to the ground, and a kick to her stomach made her gasp for breath. She curled into a ball, shielding her head with her arms. Tiny drops of blood splattered the metal floor. Her lip was bleeding. Somewhere, Amy was crying.

"Perhaps now you'd like to tell me the name of your planet, 314?" Dr. Rave asked.

Amara lowered her arms and risked a glance at the doctor. "I don't know, Doctor," she sneered, "that last blow to the head really disoriented me—I can't seem to remember anything. Do you think I have a concussion?"

A stormtrooper slammed his boot into her back—she heard ribs crack. Dr. Rave smiled down at her. "You are going to have to learn when to shut up."

"Do you enjoy contradicting yourself? Just a moment ago you wanted me to…" Amara was cut off by another blow to her stomach—for an endless minute all she could do was cough. Finally, she wiped her mouth, and her hand came away bloody. Out of the corner of her eye, Amara caught a glimpse of the doctor's smirk and, beyond him, Amy cowering in the center of three stormtroopers and cradling her left arm.

Dr. Rave noticed the glance. He nodded to the stormtroopers surrounding 315, and one of them punched the girl in her injured arm. She screamed. Dr. Rave turned his gaze back to 314 who was trembling with rage. "Want to change your attitude, number 314?"

"Bite me," Amara spat.

"Eventually perhaps," he replied, raking his cold eyes up and down her figure, before again signaling to the stormtroopers surrounding Amy. A sharp uppercut snapped her head back, and Amy fell onto her back—the stormtroopers continued kicking her.

"You bastard." Amara lashed out at the doctor but was stopped by a blow to the back of her head. Her vision blurred, and her ears rang with Amy's sobbing screams.

"That's technically incorrect, 314—my parents were married."

Amy's screams disintegrated into desperate gasps and moans. Amara flinched at the dull thud of a boot striking flesh. She glared at the doctor. "Stop it." Her voice sounded more pleading than she liked.

"Not so brave when it's someone else's life, are you?" Dr. Rave met her glare. "You stop it: tell me what I want to know."

Amara's chest tightened, and she could feel tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. Amy lay still. "I'll tell you if you leave Amy alone," she whispered, her green eyes never leaving his blue ones.

Dr. Rave grinned. "Done." The stormtroopers instantly ceased their assault and picked up Amy's limp body.

"Where are they taking her?" Amara demanded.

"She'll get some medical attention, and then she'll be returned to her cell. Forget her." He offered Amara a hand, but she stood up by herself, ignoring the pain lashing through her body and a wave of nausea. Dr. Rave couldn't help being a little impressed. "This way," he said and guided her into his office. He shut the door behind them.

Amara collapsed into the chair the doctor offered her, and concentrated on keeping him in focus as he rounded the desk and sank into the chair opposite her. Her head pounded—it felt like a monster had climbed inside her skull and was busy raking its claws down the sides of her brain.

"Now," Dr. Rave said, steepling his hands on the metal desktop, "Where are you from?"

"Oz."

"Oz? Where is it?"

Amara felt a smile tugging at her mouth. "Not Kansas."

The doctor frowned. "Don't play games with me, 314."

"I'm not, sir," Amara said earnestly, "I'm from Emerald City."

Dr. Rave's eyes sparkled. _This is it. _"Emerald City on Oz—how do you get there?" Silence stretched between them. He clenched his hands.

"Follow the Yellow Brick Road," Amara snorted, unable to contain her laughter any longer. For one glorious moment, she was able to forget where she was—tears rolled down her cheeks. _Am I happy or sad?_ _Brilliant or insane? _Her broken ribs ground together painfully, but she didn't care.

Dr. Rave's face turned white and then a yellowish red. He stood stiffly, his entire body shaking, but Amara continued to laugh. "You'll regret that," he growled.

Amara giggled. "Will you get me?"

"Yes."

"And my little dog, too?" she shook with another fit of laughter. _I've lost it._ _I'm laughing when I want to sob._

Dr. Rave strode to his office door and threw it open, barking at some stormtroopers to take 314 back to her cell. They dragged her from his office—she was still giggling. When she was gone, Lucius ran a hand through his short blond hair—he'd almost killed her; he'd wanted to with an unreasonable urgency. He couldn't afford to lose control, not with this specimen. He slammed his fist into the wall. _But I will get her—her and her fucking dog.

* * *

_

"They went to Heaven, right?" Amy asked, weakly lifting her right hand to point to the rotting heads on the cell walls.

Amara sat cross-legged with Amy's head in her lap and stroked the girl's tousled brown hair. "Yes."

"Can God find us here?"

Amara smiled sadly down into Amy's worried face. She didn't believe in God herself, but… "I'm sure He knows where you are," she whispered.

"But then why doesn't He save us? Where is He, Amara?"

Amara recognized the note of faith breaking in the girl's voice. "He's here," she said, pointing to Amy's chest, "inside you."

"Inside me?" Amy gasped and tried to lift her head to look at herself as if she suspected she had just sprouted wings, but Amara held her down.

"He can only help you if you first help yourself, though. So don't give up and don't tell the evil men anything—we'll find a way to escape. I promise."

"How?"

"I don't know—now go to sleep. We'll see what tomorrow brings."

Amy sighed and closed her eyes. Amara stayed awake long after Amy's breathing became slow and regular, just listening to the footfalls of the night patrols and watching Amy's eyes flicker beneath their lids. _Dream…Dream up a god… because tomorrow will be worse.

* * *

_

_Now…_

Marcus cuffed Jonathan's shoulder. "You're running yourself ragged, Sergeant. Ever heard of a break?"

Jonathan continued pounding his fists into the training dummy. He'd barely slept the past three days—instead throwing himself into drilling his team and working out between visits to Amara.

"You do know that you're on leave right?"

Jonathan spun and took a swing at Marcus's smiling face. Marcus dodged easily. Jonathan's shoulders slumped. "Leave me alone," he sighed and began to walk away, but Marcus stopped him.

"I know you're worried about that girl, Jonathan, we all are, but is this really the way to handle it? Are you helping her?" Jonathan refused to meet Marcus's eyes. "It's just not like you to act this way."

"You don't know what she's been through," Jonathan hissed, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Three days ago, he had seen the holovids that sick doctor had taken of Amara—all of them. He couldn't get the images out of his mind.

Marcus frowned at his friend—noticing the dark shadows under his eyes, the gaunt, haunted look of his face. "Just know that I'm here if you want to talk, okay?"

A spark of humor lit Jonathan's dark blue eyes. "About something serious?"

"Yeah, I know…me, serious." Marcus forced a laugh. "When's that Jedi supposed to arrive, anyway?"

Jonathan shook his head. "Yesterday."


	9. In Holding Room 3

_**Author's Note: **This was a hard chapter to write—I think you'll see why. I might not update as often for a while because the end of the semester is fast approaching, and I have a lot of homework. I don't own Star Wars._

In Holding Room 3

_Then…_

With a delicate-looking hammer, Dr. Rave broke every bone in the Sullustan's hand one-by-one, but he barely heard the creature's agonized screams. _How do I break her?_ He'd been obsessed with 314 for the past two months, and his other "studies" had fallen by the wayside, all but forgotten. He was trying to catch up. He switched to a larger hammer and began breaking the bones in the Sullustan's right arm. After pulverizing the specimen's shoulder, he paused to record its reactions. _She wouldn't be screaming_—the thought rose unbidden into his mind, bringing with it images of 314 strapped to this same table, biting her lip till it bled and refusing to cry out as he snapped the bones in her legs. He had broken practically every bone in her body that day, and still she'd refused to answer any of his questions with anything other than snide remarks and forced laughter. (He'd attributed her unusual level of resistance to her untainted blood.) He picked up the large hammer again and smashed it into the Sullustan's hip. He wanted to kill the girl—he slammed the hammer into the creature's thigh—he wanted to destroy her more than anything. _You want to kiss her._ The hammer sank into the Sullustan's chest with a resounding crunch—the screaming ceased. Lucius roared and flung the bloodied hammer across the room where it smashed into a computer screen that sparked and died.

He stared at the blank screen without seeing it. One of his aids scurried into the room and took in the scene with apprehensive eyes: Dr. Rave standing stiffly, hands clenched and shaking, his blond hair a mess, beside the still body of his latest experiment. The doctor had not been himself since the two girls arrived—secretly, the aid, a sickly man of twenty-five with watery brown eyes, felt sorry for them.

"Sir, is everything all right?"

"Take 314 and 315 to Holding Room 3," Lucius replied in a distant voice without looking at the aid, "and I want a squad of stormtroopers there as well." His gaze snapped to the pale man. "And don't touch either of them until I arrive, understood?"

"Yes, sir." The aid gave a jerky nod and fled the room. He hoped that whatever was sustaining the girls would protect them now.

In his mind, Lucius replayed one of his latest encounters with 314:

_He caught her singing softly to 315 one night just before he was ready to retire. He hadn't recognized the song—a lullaby of some sort—but it drew him to the door of her cell. She didn't notice him, and he stood there and listened to her haunting voice. The song ended. She looked up and saw him then, and her eyes were brimming with tears. She didn't say anything, just stared at him with those vulnerable green eyes, waiting. He practically tore open the door and ripped 314 from the cell, ignoring 315's startled shriek, as she was jolted awake._

_314 was too tired to resist, and he beat her right there in the hall, pounding his fists into her stomach, her chest, her face. She took it without a word, only a few whimpers escaped her lips. He paused and held her in front of him, his hands grasping her shoulders so that she wouldn't collapse, an unasked question in his glassy eyes—he was breathing as hard as she was. Her eyes hardened in reply, and he dropped her onto the floor and smiled when she tried to get up. He lifted her and smashed her into the bars of her cell, dislodging several of the disintegrating heads, which fell to the floor. 314 tried to hit him, but her eyes wouldn't focus, and he caught her hand easily._

_"Amara…" he whispered with a tender smile, his fingers reaching to stroke her bruised cheek. Her eyes focused then, widening in surprise. Realizing his slip, he threw her back into her cell and stormed to his chambers where he lay awake all night trying to block out the memory of her voice._

Lucius shook his head—he had to end this.

* * *

Amara gazed at the dead alien in the cell across from hers—now that the heads were gone she could see it's emaciated form clearly—and felt a stab of envy. Her whole body ached, her bones felt brittle from being repeatedly broken and repaired, and her skin was a colorful collage of purple, yellow, and blue bruises.

Amy sighed. "Will you tell me a story?" She was in slightly better shape than Amara, mostly because Amara always tried to hold Dr. Rave's attention and take the brunt of the abuse.

"What type of story?"

"I don't know—just a story."

"Once upon a time," Amara began, still staring at the dead alien, "there lived an old man who read a great deal and was distressed by the violence in the world, so he formed a strange plan: to become a knight-errant and travel the world fighting evil in a time when both knights and chivalry were dead. His name was Don Quixote de la Mancha…"

"Did he succeed?" Amy broke in.

"Yes and no."

"What do you mean?"

"He chose a quest that could never be completed."

"Why not?"

One of the songs from the musical floated into Amara's mind: _To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, to bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go…Is that what I'm doing? Will I die in the end like Don Quixote—in a flame of imagined glory?_

"Amara?"

Amara started and turned to find Amy looking worriedly at her. "I'm sorry—that story isn't the best one to tell right now."

"That's okay. I don't really need a story anyway," Amy said with a small smile, but she couldn't hide the disappointed slump of her shoulders or quell the growing terror trembling inside her chest—was Amara going crazy? Every day she became more and more…distant, like she was crawling inside her mind, like she wasn't there with her in the cell. It frightened her. Amy knew it was because of the bad man—the doctor who wasn't anything like a doctor should be. Amara tried to protect her—Amy was ashamed of how she always cried when Amara didn't. She was grateful that at least Amara still sang to her sometimes late at night, but even that was becoming more and more rare. She asked God to help her friend.

Heavy footfalls echoed down the hall, and Amara suppressed a groan. One of the doctor's helpers, a skinny, pale man she had seen once or twice before, and four stormtroopers stopped outside the cell. The man unlocked the door with shaking hands; he looked more jittery than usual. Once the door was open, the stormtroopers marched in; two grabbed Amara under the armpits and yanked her to her feet. The other two grabbed Amy.

They were taken down a maze of halls, past many others cells holding many other dead and dying creatures. Amara wondered why she hadn't noticed them before. Finally, they stopped in a rather large, open room that Amara vaguely recognized as the room she and Amy had first been held in after they were removed from the slave ship. Then, it had been empty, but now a single examination table crouched menacingly in the center of the room. The walls were lined with about a dozen stormtroopers. She glanced up and saw several officers in crisp black uniforms gazing down at her from the catwalks that crisscrossed overhead. Dr. Rave was nowhere in sight.

She turned questioningly to the doctor's helper who refused to meet her gaze. "What is this about?"

The young man fidgeted. "I don't know," he mumbled and retreated into a corner.

Amara felt a wave of weariness wash over her, and she leaned on the stormtrooper grasping her left arm. He seemed startled and tilted his expressionless mask down to look at her, but when she met his blank black gaze, he quickly looked away and stared straight ahead.

"I thought we'd try something different tonight—have a little fun."

Amara stiffened at the sound of Dr. Rave's voice behind her. She doubted she'd enjoy his idea of "fun." Amy was already crying beside her.

Dr. Rave crossed the room to the examination table and faced his two subjects. 314 had that determined look on her face. He grinned. "Release her," he said to the stormtroopers holding 314. "Come here," he said to her.

Amara hesitated, but finally, she fixed an ironic smile on her face, and swaggered forward as best she could. She stopped a few feet in front of him and raised her right eyebrow mockingly.

His arms flashed out so fast that she didn't have time to react before she was hauled against the doctor's body in a crushing embrace. His lips ground against hers, and he tried to force his tongue into her mouth. With a furious yell, Amara drove her knee into his groin. Dr. Rave released her and doubled over. She took the opportunity to kick him in the face, throwing him into the edge of the table. She advanced on him, her rage driving away all the pain of her abused body, but before she could land a punch, she was dragged back by the two stormtroopers who had brought her there—one smacked her across the face.

"Wait!" Dr. Rave yelled, righting himself. His mouth was bleeding, and he wiped his sleeve across it, leaving a red trail on the white fabric. The stormtrooper halted his arm in mid-punch. "Just hold her." The doctor, his manic ice blue eyes locked onto Amara, strode over to 315 and ran a hand down her face and across her chest—she trembled.

Amara struggled to break free, but the stormtroopers held fast. "Don't touch her!" she screamed.

"But if you don't want to play," the doctor crooned, "perhaps 315 does." His eyes never leaving Amara's agonized face, he bent down and licked the tears from 315's cheeks. The girl tried to pull away from his mouth, but he caught her chin in his hand. With a smile, he wrapped an arm around 315's waist and pulled her to the metal table. 315 didn't resist but started whimpering. He lifted her onto the table, and slid his hand under her shirt to grope her small breasts.

Amara couldn't bear the helpless look in Amy's eyes—she was only a child. "Leave her alone," she pleaded.

Dr. Rave glanced over his shoulder at her. "Why should I? Do you want to take her place? Because I am going to have a good time one way or another—I don't care who it's with."

Amara drew in a shaky breath._ He's going to rape me—my first time, and I'm going to be raped._ She met Amy's frightened, confused gaze. _But what choice do I have?_

"I don't want Amy here—let her go back to the cell."

The doctor smiled as Amy was taken off the table by the stormtroopers and once again restrained. "I think we'll let her watch—educate her a bit. Don't you think?" Amara opened her mouth to protest, but… "Do you want to argue, number 314?" he asked threateningly. She snapped her mouth shut. "I thought not," he said and motioned her forward.

The stormtrooper on her left gave her arm a gentle squeeze before releasing her—it was so fleeting that Amara wondered if she had imagined it, but she didn't have time to dwell on the unexpected touch. She strode up to the doctor with her head held high and resisted the urge to swipe the triumphant smirk off his face.

For an eternity, he just stared at her. His eyes became serious, and he scooped her up and laid her on the table almost reverently. Amara felt the cold metal pressing against her back through her shirt. Above her, Imperial officers gawked, hanging over the catwalk rails. She closed her eyes. Her ragged jeans were slipped off, then her underwear. Ruff hands parted her thighs, and the table groaned as someone else climbed on. A shadow fell over her face.

"Look at me," Dr. Rave urged. His warm breath kissed her forehead. She ignored him. "Look at me," he said again, louder this time.

Amara opened her eyes to find Dr. Rave's face only inches from her own—her vision was filled with his eyes, the eyes of a blind man that bored into her own as if he was searching something behind the misty green. _He's trying to swallow me._

And then he thrust inside her. Amara bit back a scream and closed her eyes. Her fingernails cut bloody half-moons into her palms. Amy was sobbing, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over. The doctor's hands tangled in her lank brown hair. The officers jeered, but exclamations of disgust also filtered down from the catwalks. _Just let it be over. Just let it end. Let it end._

And then it did. The doctor's body collapsed on top of her—he lay there, breathing hard, and Amara could feel his heart beating against her own. He raised himself up off of her and slid off the examination table. She still didn't open her eyes.

Lucius zipped up his pants and forced a smile onto his face, beaming triumphantly around the room. But his eyes fell on the half-naked form of 314 lying rigidly on the table, and his smile faltered. He shook his head; his eyes stabbed into his aid who was cowering in a corner. "David!"

The young man looked up. Lucius gestured to 314. "Why don't you take a ride?"

David's face turned ashen. He shook his head.

Lucius's smile broadened. He strode over to the young man and wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders, guiding him to the table. "Come on—there's no sense in me having all the fun is there, David?" His voice was pleasant, but his eyes warned the aid not to argue. David clambered on to the table.

Amara forced her eyes open. The man above her was crying even as he pulled down his pants. _I'm so sorry_—his brown eyes whispered. Amara couldn't look at him—she shut her eyes again. The boy finished quickly, and scrambled off the table. The yells from the officers above grew louder.

"Come on down," Lucius shouted to the officers, men who hadn't had a woman in months, "Today, we're having a party." Despite his words, the sound of booted feet on metal treads as the men clamored to have their fun with 314, made bile rise in the back of his throat. He stared at her. _Fight, damn you._

Men, grabbing, groping men pressed in on her—Amara could feel tears pressing against the back of her eyes. _I won't cry. I won't cry. I won't cry._ Her eyes snapped open and a desperate laugh bubbled from her throat, startling the lieutenant on top of her. "Is that the best you can do?" she sneered, "I've gotten better sex from a drunken, half-dead monkey!"

Lucius could have giggled with glee as he watched his officers rape 314 and listened to the insults she threw at them.

"Your mother sucks cocks in hell," Amara spat at the deeply tanned man crawling off of her. She wished her head could spin. "Whose next?"

* * *

RL-213 watched his superiors ravage the small girl on the table—the girl who had, consciously or not, leaned on him for support. Blood pounded through his veins, and he had the strange urge to whip out his blaster rifle and shoot his leaders. _This is not right._ He wasn't sure if he meant the behavior of his commanding officers or his own desires. RL-213 drew in a calming breath and recited the mantras of his training: _You do not question orders. You do not question the actions of your superiors. You live for the Empire. You fight for the Empire. You die for the Empire._ The girl was laughing, but it sounded like crying too. _Is this the Empire?_ Almost all the stormtroopers had developed a grudging respect for the girl's ability to hold-up under torture—in some cases better than they had in that particular phase of their training. _Is this the Empire?_

Holding Room 3 quieted, and RL-213 pushed aside his misgivings. _You do not question._ The officers were leaving the room, some were laughing, but others looked disturbed. Dr. Rave followed them out, throwing over his shoulder: "Take 314 and 315 back to their cell."

The stormtrooper's gaze turned to the girl now abandoned on the metal examination table. She had rolled onto her side and was curled into a ball; her face buried in her knees. He reached the table before his comrade and waved the other stormtrooper away. Gently, he uncurled her and slipped his arms beneath her shoulders and knees. She didn't look at him when he lifted her from the table and settled her slight body against his armored chest. Her lips were bruised red, but the skin around them was icy white.

The other stormtroopers pulled Amy to her feet, and she stumbled out of the room between them.

RL-213 followed behind with Amara in his arms. When they reached the girls' cell, he walked in and laid Amara in Amy's lap, conscious of his squad mates' stares. He hastily exited the cell. The barred door swung closed and locked with a _snick._ _Do not question.

* * *

_

That night Amy did her best to comfort Amara, stroking her back with trembling hands as Amara sobbed into her shoulder. She sobbed into the early hours of the morning, sobbed until she had no more tears left to cry.


	10. Amara's Mind

_**Author's Note: **I don't own Star Wars, Monty Python, or the Phantom of the Opera—weird disclaimer, I know, but well…just read the chapter, and all we become somewhat clear._

Amara's Mind

_Now…_

Vice Admiral Harris gazed skeptically at the Mon Calamarian before him. She wasn't exactly what he had expected—_Doesn't look like a Jedi._ But, then again, the only Jedi he had ever seen was Luke Skywalker…from a distance. He didn't know much about them besides the fact that they had some sort of mind powers—something he did not trust in the least. He crossed his arms over his wide chest and offered the Jedi a half grin. _We'll see what powers you have._

Cilghal felt the Vice Admiral's distrust the moment she entered the room; it was a sensation she was growing accustomed to. Even though she was a healer, relatively unskilled in combat, most of her patients tended to greet her with disbelief before she healed them—Jedi's were still a novelty, and she hadn't anywhere near the fame of Master Skywalker. In medical circles, however, she had begun to gain some notoriety of her own. So she hadn't been surprised when her services were requested by the Republic base on Belkadan, but when she learned the background of her new patient, she was shocked. The holovids of the girl's ordeal had been painful to watch—but she had to in order to understand exactly what she would be dealing with: a girl backed against a wall, defending her last safe haven—her mind.

"I want this business resolved as soon as possible," Harris said, rocking back on his heels, "How long will it take you to help Ms. Richards wake up?"  
Cilghal spread her fin-like hands in a shrug, "I cannot be sure—the healing process is different for each patient. This poor girl has suffered serious mental, emotional, and physical trauma. She's hiding."

Harris huffed. "Look, I don't mean to rush you, but I just want her fixed up and on her feet as soon as possible."

"I can understand that…" the Mon Cal began.

"No, not completely, you can't," Harris interrupted, "Ms. Richard's continued illness is hurting the moral of my soldiers, specifically one of my best sergeants. That girl needs to wake up."

"Yes, but…"

"You probably noticed that your arrival was not announced…"

"Well, there was no need to announce…"

"Don't interrupt me," the Vice Admiral snapped, "Sgt. Knight cannot know you've arrived—he would just interfere, trust me." Harris frowned, and Cilghal sensed true concern for this sergeant. "I don't want him to get his hopes up."

"I'm sure I can reach her, sir," Cilghal said reassuringly.

Harris smiled. "You better hope so because if you don't and Sgt. Knight finds out (which he will), I won't be able to stop him from killing you."

* * *

The girl's room hummed with fear and pain and sorrow—the emotions radiating off her patient hit Cilghal in the gut as she sat beside the bed. She released the breath she didn't know she'd been holding and willed peace and calm to flood her mind. She laid her hands on Amara's head and opened herself to Amara's mind…

_Fog swirled across an endless black plain under an endless black sky. No stars broke the velvet night. No moon destroyed the perfect, glowing darkness. Cilghal was stunned by the haunting beauty of it all. She had only been inside another being's mind once before—but it had been nothing like this. She walked forward, looking for any sign of Amara. There was something far in the distance, balanced on the horizon. Cilghal tried to think herself closer, but the mist rose up and blocked her. Stretching out with the Force, she tried project safety and reassurance, tried to break through the fog wall._

_A small, white rabbit hopped out of the mist. It cocked its head at her and raised its ears as if waiting for her to say something. I'm making progress, Cilghal thought, and bent down to the rabbit, reaching her hands out to it. "It's okay, Amara, I'm not here to hurt you. You're…" But the rabbit cut her off—with a giant leap, it attacked her, sinking its fangs into her neck. Cilghal was so surprised that she almost gave up without a fight, but, calling on the Force for strength, she managed to tear the thing from her neck and hurl it back into the fog._

_"…then lobbest thou the Holy Hand Grenade in the direction of thine foe, who, being naughty in my sight, shall snuff it."_

_Cilghal whirled around fast enough to see two oddly dressed men fade into the night. She had never been so confused in her life. Yes, a person's mind was a complex thing, full of memories, feelings, and images, but this…Cilghal drew in a cleansing breath. She would find Amara—nothing else mattered. She drove forward; her eyes fixed on the structure growing on the horizon: it was a wall._

_Something disturbed the fog on her right. A teenage boy and girl emerged. The boy spotted her, laughed, and pointed, saying: "Look, Kat, a giant squid! We'll eat well tonight." He rubbed his belly, in mock hunger. "Mmm…calamari."_

_The girl punched the boy in the arm. "Shut up, Jake. You don't want offend it." She began dragging both of them back into the fog._

_"Wait!" Cilghal shouted, but they were already gone. Those must have been people Amara knew, Cilghal thought, with a shake of her head—she was more prepared to deal with such apparitions, shades…memories. At least they hadn't tried to attack her. Hopefully, she would find them again or someone who could lead her back to their creator._

_A lasso shot from the dark, and only her Jedi reflexes kept her from being garroted. Cilghal turned to face her assailant—glowing golden eyes glared back at her. A corpse-like man stood a few meters from her; he wore a white mask, and a black cape billowed out behind him. He advanced on her. Cilghal was a healer and had never excelled (or wanted to) in combat. She sensed this man's pain, and even though he obviously wanted to hurt her, she yearned to help him. She gave herself a mental shake. This man was not real—he was a creation of Amara, a guardian of her mind. If she forgot that, she could wander lost forever, unable to help Amara or herself leave. The masked man was now close enough to strike her, but the blow never landed—Cilghal blasted him away._

_Tiny, tinkling bells began to play. A soft voice echoed across the plain: "Masquerade…paper faces on parade…masquerade…hide your face, so the world will never find you…" The masked man ripped apart before her eyes, becoming shreds of black paper that fluttered away in a sudden, icy wind. Cilghal trembled—this world (mind!) was becoming too real._

_"Get out, get out, get out get out getoutgetoutgetoutgetout…" the wind hissed._

_Cilghal tensed, reaching out with the Force. A hatred so intense it almost knocked her down slammed into her across the Force connection. She ran. Get to the wall, she chanted over and over to herself. She almost barreled into the boy who stepped into her path. She stopped so fast that she fell to her knees. Cilghal found herself looking into the startling violet (almost black) eyes of an eleven- or twelve-year-old boy with messy black hair. They starred at each other. The boy broke the silence first: "It's her fault." His face split in a menacing, terrifying grin. "And yours." Shadows of what were once people appeared out of the fog and began circling her._

"_Wait," Cilghal pleaded, "I'm not who you think I am." The Shadows got closer. The boy continued to grin. She raised her head and shouted into the black sky: "I'm here to help you, Amara! I'm not Dr. Rave!" As soon as the doctor's name passed her lips, Cilghal knew she had made a terrible mistake._

_The boy's eyes turned from violet-black to blood red—blood filled his eyes and overflowed, cutting red rivers down his cheeks. The Shadows shook with rage and flew at her. The boy was laughing and screaming. Everything…Amara…herself…the wall…was slipping away._

Cilghal yanked her hands from Amara's head and collapsed back in the chair beside the hospital bed. The Force trembled around her. She was shaking—the boy's laughter and screams still hummed inside her head. Shadows still swam before her bulbous eyes. Cilghal rested her head in her hands. "I'm going to need help," she whispered to herself.

"You can't help her?"

Cilghal started and looked up to find a slender young man standing rigidly in the doorway. _Sgt. Knight._ Anxiety and…something else…was coming off of him in waves. _How long has he been there?_ She felt disoriented, but she knew she needed to reassure him. "I can't help her by myself, no," Cilghal said soothingly, "but if I had help then…"

The sergeant's face darkened. "You've been in here two hours and…"

She balked at that: "Two hours!"

"Yes two hours, and now you're just giving up." Sgt. Knight drew in an audible breath—outwardly, he became calm. If Cilghal hadn't been a Jedi, she wouldn't have known the turmoil raging in his mind. This outward stillness was only the calm before the storm. He didn't make a sound as he approached her.

Cilghal hurried to placate him. "I said I need help—I'm not giving up." She stared straight into his stormy eyes. "I won't give up on her."

The sergeant rounded the bed and stopped only a few feet before her. His eyes flickered to the girl lying motionless in the bed. "Explain."

"I went into Amara's mind to try to draw her out," Cilghal drew in a steadying breath and continued, "to tell her she was safe. But I fear I might have made her condition worse. Her mental defenses are too strong for only one Jedi—for me. I don't want to risk entering her mind alone again—she might kill herself to keep me from getting her. I don't think I would be able to stop her."

A shuddering sigh escaped Sgt. Knight's lips. "She thinks that bastard doctor is trying to hurt her." His words were tinged with venom.

"I believe so—when I mentioned his name…she…" Cilghal shook her head—the images were too fresh. She didn't want to relive them now, but she caught a glimpse of the sergeant's murderous thoughts. _That doctor is lucky he's in Republic custody where this man can't get him._ She laid a comforting hand on his arm. "He'll get what he deserves."

"Will he?" He shook his head; cynicism glinted in his eyes.

"You shouldn't worry about him, anyway," Cilghal continued, giving his arm a gentle squeeze and projecting warmth and comfort into the grief-wracked room, "Concentrate on Amara now. You can help her."

"How?"

"Just be with her, talk to her—perhaps you can give her some small measure of comfort, even if she doesn't trust it."

"And you…?"

"I will request the assistance of my fellow Jedi—next time I'll be ready for whatever she dishes out."

Sgt. Knight cracked a small smile. "You'll have to tell me what she did to you—you looked like a ghost." A note of pride entered his voice: "Was she that bad?"

"You have no idea." It was her turn to smile. "How did you know I was here? I was told you weren't informed—that you were to be kept away at all costs."

"Nothing happens on this base that I don't know about. Nothing," he said, "I assume you will inform the Vice Admiral of his failure?"

Cilghal laughed, but it was hollow laughter. _I'll tell Harris of his failure…and my own._


	11. Playing Freud

_**Author's Note: **Thanks to my reviewers. I don't own Star Wars._

Playing Freud

_Then…_

Amara didn't cry again after that night. In fact, Amy awoke the next morning to find Amara standing by the bars of their cell door, a smile plastered on her face. Amy shuddered—there was nothing behind that smile; Amara's eyes were dead.

It had been hard to stand, but she'd stood anyway—Amara wasn't going to let _him_ ever know how violated she felt, how hurt. Someone was moaning in another cell. She could hear Amy stirring behind her, but she did not turn.

"Amara?" Somewhere, a door hissed open. Footsteps disturbed the heavy silence. "Are you all right?" Amy's voice sounded strangled. The footsteps grew louder, thundering in her ears. Amara leaned against the bars, trying to see who was coming. A group of stormtroopers marched past their cell in tight formation. They looked neither left nor right, but one turned and met her gaze. Their eyes locked for a moment, and then the stormtrooper looked forward again and marched on.

"Amara?"

She sighed. "Yes, Amy?"

"Are…are you…mad at m-me?"

Amara squeezed the bars, her knuckles white. "No."

"I…I'm sorry," Amy whimpered.

"You have no reason to be," Amara said, her voice tight, "What happened was not your fault."

"But I…"

Amara whirled around, her eyes blazing. "Just shut up!" she screamed. Amy jumped and tried to get away from Amara's rage—she cowered in the corner, crying softly. Amara blinked and drew in a calming breath. She knelt beside the crying child and reached out a hand to her, but Amy flinched. Amara let her hand drop between them. "I'm sorry, Amy. I shouldn't…I'm not mad at you." With that, she stood and moved back to the cell door, trying to ignore the whimpers and sniffs coming from behind her. _I shouldn't have snapped at her—she doesn't deserve that. It wasn't her fault._ She massaged her temples—she hadn't slept at all last night; she didn't dare. Every time she closed her eyes…she saw…

The door's lock clicked open, making Amara jump back in surprise. The stormtroopers were back—the four stood silently in the hall. _Why didn't I hear them?_ Her eyes immediately sought out the one who had looked at her, but he seemed to be ignoring her now—if it was him at all. _You all look alike._ Another stormtrooper grabbed her upper arm and yanked her from the cell, then shut and locked the door again. The stormtroopers formed a box around her, forcing to walk down the hall. Amara only caught a glimpse of Amy's startled eyes before they rounded a corner and disappeared into the prison's complex web of halls.

Finally, they reached a room Amara was all too familiar with—the room where she had been tortured: broken and rebuilt again and again. To her surprise, however, the stormtroopers passed through the room and instead dumped her in Dr. Rave's office. They left without a word, shutting the door behind them. It took Amara a second to realize that Dr. Rave wasn't actually in the office. She grinned. _Well, I might as well have a little fun before he arrives.

* * *

_

_I probably shouldn't have left her alone._ Dr. Lucius Rave stood in the doorway and surveyed the damage done to his office. She really hadn't hurt anything. The desk was moved so that it faced the door. Two of the uncomfortable chairs had been pushed end to end to make a strange couch-bed thing. But then he noticed the pile of debris in one corner and realized that all his honors were missing from the walls. _Damn her._ He entered the room, unsure whether he should laugh or scream. The object of his annoyance was sitting in _his _chair with her back to him.

"I'm so glad you decided to join us, Dr. Rave," she said with out turning, "Please, shut the door behind you."

Without thinking, he obeyed. Lucius was torn between outrage and admiration. _Didn't I just fuck her yesterday?_

Number 314 swiveled to face him, raising her eyebrow. "Please, sit down so we can get started," she purred in a strange accent and gestured to the makeshift couch-bed. Again, he did as he was told. He willed himself not to smile into her mock-serious face. 314 rested her elbows on the chair's arms and pressed the tips of her fingers together. "Now, tell me about your childhood."

"I believe I'm the one who's supposed to make demands here."

Amara clicked her tongue disapprovingly and met the doctor's eyes without flinching. _I am going to kill you, kill you and relish doing so. Just wait. _"Don't be difficult, Dr. Rave. We must get to the root of your problems."

"Problems?" he queried, irritation creeping into his voice.

"Yes, problems," Amara retorted, "The first step is admission."

"Enough of this game," he hissed and stood.

Amara ignored him and spun to face the wall again. "I believe that you're stuck at the Anal Stage of development, Dr. Rave, because you seem to _enjoy_ spewing the all that shit that comes out of your mouth." The chair spun, almost tossing her out of it, and Amara found herself face to face with Dr. Rave. His hands gripped the chair's armrests. He did not look amused. "Tell me, do you find your bowel movements pleasurable?" she asked with a small smile.

Dr. Rave slapped her across the face (_apparently he's not fond of Freud)_ and ripped her out of the chair, throwing her to the ground. She tried to stand, but he kicked her hard in the stomach. Amara lay gasping at his feet. _I will KILL you. _Dr. Rave reached down and yanked her up by her shirt collar. She tried to hit him, but he slammed her into the wall and ground his body up against hers.

"I'm stuck at the Anal Stage, am I?" he sneered.

Amara felt all the blood leave her face—she was shaking; she couldn't stop. _No. NO._

Dr. Rave just smiled at the flash of terror in 314's eyes. _Well, well, well…so our little party last night did have some effect on her._ He was even more pleased when her eyes hardened into shining emerald orbs of hatred. He kissed her then, forcing his tongue into her mouth. 314 shrieked and bit down on his tongue, drawing blood. Lucius swore and slammed her head into the wall before ripping down her pants and turning her so that she was facing the wall. "I'll show you the Anal Stage," he whispered into her ear as he moved his erection across her exposed buttocks. He leaned forward. Her head snapped back so fast that he couldn't avoid the blow—he backed off, clutching his head. _Damn her._

Amara paused only long enough to pull up her pants before she bolted from the room…and right into the arms of a stormtrooper. The stormtrooper held her painfully tight and forced her to turn around—just in time to see Dr. Rave stumble from his office, a red welt on his forehead. Amara's own head was throbbing from what was probably yet another concussion, but she had gotten away, if only briefly. Dr. Rave stared at her, but his eyes were unreadable. Finally, he approached her, running a caressing hand down her cheek to wrap around her neck. Only the stormtrooper's grip on her arms kept Amara from punching the doctor's nose.

"Did I hurt you last night, 314?" the doctor asked, leaning closer until their faces were mere inches apart. His hand tightened on her throat.

Amara could feel her body tremble. _No. I won't be afraid of you._ He smiled and brushed his lips across her forehead, her nose, her lips. Amara cringed. "Indulge me, Herr Doctor," she jeered, "Is that the only way you can get a girl to touch your loathsome body? Or do you pay for whores as well?"

Dr. Rave smirked, and his hand moved from her throat to her breast. "Is that what you think, number 314?" he whispered close to her ear, "At least I know that when you close your eyes, it's me you see above you, me you dream about."

She shuddered and wished she could melt into the stormtrooper behind her. "You're disgusting."

"Perhaps." He straightened and tilted his head, studying her. "Will you tell me where your home planet is?"

"No."

"Fine," he said with a shrug, and then to the stormtrooper still clasping her arms: "Take 314 back into my office—I'll need you to restrain her."

* * *

Amy had to force herself to look up when the cell door clanged open and Amara was shoved in. Amara stood rigidly in the center of the cell, staring straight ahead. Her hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists; a trickle of blood escaped through her fingers. Amy chewed her bottom lip. _What do I do? It's my fault. What do I do?_ Something her mother once said floated into her mind—it'd been so long since she'd thought of her mother; the voice whispered from another life: "_No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted._" Still she hesitated, Amara's outburst that morning had been more frightening then anything Amy had experienced so far. _What if she yells at me again?_ Pushing her fears away, Amy stood on wobbly legs and shuffled up to where Amara still stood riveted. With a sob, Amy wrapped her arms around her friend, pulling her into a warm hug.

* * *

"_No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."_

_--Aesop, The Lion and the Mouse_


	12. Amy

_**Author's Note: **I think it's time for this chapter…yes, definitely time. I don't own Star Wars._

Amy

She was in the office with him—again. RL-213 tried to block out the muffled screams (not all of which came from the girl). He never participated in the doctor's "interrogations," preferring to let his fellow squad mates restrain the girl. He just listened outside, struggling with his desire to kill himself or Dr. Rave. The last five weeks had been a lesson in mental torment.

He was used to his days being precise, his mind as sharp as the line between black and white. Now, however, the days were a blur of beatings, rape, and hatred so intense it made his ears ring. His squad would pick up the girl in the morning, broken, battered, but with an insane desire to fight shining from her green eyes, and pick her up at night, shattered but laughing hysterically. Before he dragged her into his office, Dr. Rave always asked, "Where is your home planet." The girl would smile and shake her head, sometimes with a snide comment thrown in. RL-213 always wanted to scream at her then to just give up and tell so the torture would stop and he could go back to the blissfully sharp and clear existence of a stormtrooper.

But a part of him also wanted her to continue fighting. Every time he saw her, he tried to give her a small bit of comfort: a soft squeeze on her arm, a tender look he hoped she could feel even if she couldn't see it behind his mask. The empty look in her eyes, like the staring oblivion he'd seen on his own victims after he'd gunned them down, tore him apart. He took slight comfort in the fact that she knew he was there, that he cared. She had smiled at him once—a sad smile that was little more than the trembling rise of the corners of her mouth. _Kill me_, her eyes had pleaded.

_Why? Why do I care?_ A bitter smile flitted across his face, thankfully hidden behind his emotionless helmet. He knew that he wouldn't give a damn about the girl if she wasn't human—heck, he could gun down her little friend without a twinge of regret. His smile widened as he recognized his own hypocrisy. _The world is so much easier when everything is black or white._ The Empire had no room for shades of gray. _But this is not the Empire—Dr. Rave is not the Empire. The Emperor would never allow this kind of cruelty._ That belief was the only thing that kept RL-213 from tearing apart.

An exceptionally loud crash followed by a cry of rage snapped him from his reverie in time to see the office door whoosh open and the girl fall out into the room. She kept her left arm tight against her body, and though her face was white, she was grinning in genuine delight. RL-213 soon saw why. Dr. Rave was clutching his head, blood gushed through his fingers, but RL-213 didn't stop to hope that the injury was terribly serious. Head wounds always bled a lot. Wiping the blood from his eyes, the doctor glared down at the girl who hadn't bothered to get up from where she'd fallen. She giggled and said, "You really should watch out for those metal chairs, Doctor Dearest—they can be vicious."

The doctor's eyes looked white against the red blood matting his hair and staining his face. His voice was soft and deadly. "Bring me 315." Two stormtroopers left to get the girl who'd been relatively ignored those past weeks. 314 began to tremble.

"Wait…" she cried. But the doctor ignored her. RL-213 fought the urge to comfort her. Instead, he went and stood behind her.

* * *

Amara wished now that she hadn't bashed Dr. Rave in the head with a chair. _What have I done?_ She was only slightly comforted when her stormtrooper (as she had begun to refer to him) stood protectively close to her.

The doctor paced the room, a cloth pressed to his head, his eyes locked on the door. He didn't look at her and only stopped when Amy was brought in sandwiched between two stormtroopers. Dr. Rave motioned the stormtroopers to form a half-circle with Amara and himself inside and Amy alone at the open end, backed up against a wall. Amara was surprised to see her make a small attempt at bravery, raising her chin in defiance.

Dr. Rave turned to Amara. "I see you've rubbed off on her," he said, his voice ice, "Too bad she is of no use to me anymore."

Amara struggled to stand. When she finally managed to force her feet beneath her, she reached out to the doctor pleadingly. "Please, Dr. Rave—I'm sorry…I won't…"

Something flickered in the doctor's eyes, but he shook his head. "It's too late for that."

It was then that Amara saw the blaster clutched in his bloody hand. "NO!" she screamed and flew at him, but strong white-armored arms shot out and pulled her back. She struggled to break free, but the stormtrooper—her stormtrooper—held her thin body easily. Dr. Rave watched her with something akin to pity but marred by gloating triumph.

He raised the blaster. Amy whimpered, but couldn't seem to move. She stared in shock and confusion as the muzzle pointed at her heart.

_Move, Amy! Run!_ Amara wanted to shout, but all that came out was a strangled: "No…please don't…leave her alone…" She fought harder to break free. _Amy!_

The blast ripped through her consciousness—Amy slammed back into the wall and crumpled to the floor. Amara stopped struggling, her body rigid, her mind numb. She breathed in…and out, and that was eternity. Then the hands holding her back were gone, and she raced to Amy's prone form.

She turned Amy onto her back and pulled her cooling body onto her lap. Amy's eyes fluttered open—she smiled. Amara tried to smile back, to say something, but her throat was dry.

"I'm sorry, Amara," Amy whispered. Amara could only shake her head. "I…" Amy coughed, blood stained her lips, "I'm scarred."

Amara found her voice. "Don't be," she said tenderly, brushing some hair from Amy's eyes, "You're going home."

"Home…"

"Yes."

"A-are you coming…are you c-coming too?" The light was fading from her child-like brown eyes.

"Soon."

She tried to lift a hand to touch Amara's face. "Sing…"

Amara wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but there was nothing inside her but emptiness, dry and cold. She grasped Amy's hand, felt it go limp between her fingers. She rocked her and began to sing in a hollow voice:

"_In the arms of an angel  
Fly away from here  
From this dark cold hotel room  
And the endlessness that you fear  
You are pulled from the wreckage  
Of your silent reverie  
You're in the arms of the angel  
May you find some comfort there…_"

Her voice broke and died away. Amy was dead, and all she could do was rock her body back and forth.

* * *

"Take 314 back to her cell."

The doctor's voice pierced the crushing silence that filled the room and still echoed with the girl's mourning song. RL-213 could feel the tension in the room; see it in the uneasy stances of his compatriots. The stormtroopers were unnerved, and based on the strain in his face the doctor was too. "Take 314 away," he snapped again. Even the girl didn't seem to hear him—she continued to rock her dead friend, eyes dry and blank.

RL-213 was the first to move. He loosened the girl's grip on the body and lifted her to her feet. She stared up at him and did not move away. Guilt gnawed at him. He had held her back—he hadn't let her protect her friend. In some way, he was the cause of this pain beyond words or tears. He didn't care about the girl lying dead at his feet, blood pooling around her, but about the girl in front of him, the girl he'd betrayed to protect. For the second time, he picked her up, cradled her against his chest, and carried her to her cell.

When he put her down, she crawled into the corner and closed her eyes. He drew in a shaky breath, but didn't say anything. He left the cell and locked the door behind him. But RL-213 had made a decision.

* * *

_"No…let them go…please…"_

_The violet-eyed boy was running—Amy right beside him. She felt her lips curve into a cruel smile. The blaster in her hand swung up almost of its own accord, lazily slicing an arc through the air. Her finger convulsed on the trigger twice. Two red bolts flew through the darkness. The boy and Amy fell dead. Someone was laughing, and it took Amara a moment to realize it was her…_

Amara sat bolt upright, her whole body trembling uncontrollably. Dead faces, dead eyes swam across her vision. A tiny cry escaped her throat. _This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper._She buried her face in her hands.

* * *

"Angel" lyrics by Sarah Mclachlan

"This is the way the world ends…not with a bang but a whimper."—T.S. Eliot, _The Hollow Men_


	13. Beyond the Wall

_**Author's Note: **Time for another weird disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, Jabberwocky (by Lewis Carroll), Zelda, or Chess (the musical)—only my characters are mine. Enjoy._

Beyond the Wall

_Now…_

"…So now you know why I require you're help." Cilghal sighed and stared down at her hands, still a little embarrassed and ashamed that she had not been able to help Amara alone. She had spent the last fifteen minutes recounting her experience in Amara's mind to Master Skywalker, and now she waited for his response with something like trepidation. _What if he says he can't help?_ But no—he was Luke Skywalker—he wouldn't just give up on someone. Or so she hoped for both their sakes—she snuck a glance at Jonathan Knight who had invited himself to the private Jedi meeting and had now turned his penetrating blue eyes on the Jedi Master. _Why do I fear for Master Skywalker's safety?_

Luke's mouth twisted up slightly as if he had caught her thought or perhaps just her glance. He straightened in his seat, pushing the long brown sleeves of his robe back in an automatic gesture, and clasped his hands—black glove lacing with white flesh—leaning forward. "Do you think she has Force abilities?"

Cilghal shook her head. "No, just…" she searched for the right words, then shrugged, "an awesome control over her mind." Again her bulbous eyes traveled to where Sgt. Knight was observing the two Jedi carefully—he met her gaze but his eyes were unreadable. "Based on my experience in her mind and the…information I was provided about her, I would say that she's had plenty of time and motivation to create a strong defense."

"But you fear she might try to kill herself if we push to hard?"

"Yes…"

"_No_," Jonathan broke into the conversation for the first time. Luke turned his calm, detached gaze onto the sergeant; his eyes sparkled with what might have been amusement—or annoyance. Jonathan narrowed his own eyes in response, refusing to be intimidated by this Hero of the Rebellion. "No," he repeated, "Amara wouldn't kill herself. She has too strong a will to live—to triumph." Images from the holovids flashed through his mind—Amara laughing, clawing at the 'doctor,' snapping insult after insult at the men beating her. _She's still fighting—she'd go down fighting._

The Jedi Master gave him a small, understanding smile. "Even the Hero, who hangs on infinite seconds longer than those around him, eventually lets go."

"…Unless a helping hand reaches out," Cilghal interjected, feeling the waves of tension emanating from the sergeant. He was not naïve—people died, some by there own hand, quite a few by his—but she could tell he wasn't a man who failed often (or ever). Amara's death would be a cruel blow after he had rescued her. _The operation was successful but the patient died_, she mused, wondering where that expression had come from.

"So you'll help her," Sgt. Knight said.

Luke nodded his sandy-haired head. _Sometimes he still looks a farm boy—until you look in his eyes._ Cilghal smiled at her Master, noticing the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. He didn't return her smile. Instead he sighed and said solemnly, "She can still refuse the proffered hand." He directed this statement toward Jonathan, who had begun to look hopeful, but Cilghal felt a light nudge in the Force that told her he wanted her to listen well. "I've never fought someone's mind while _inside_ their mind—not like Cilghal describes it anyways. She has complete control over what happens. Our job will be to get her to trust us, to open up, and see that we mean no harm. That said it will be hard to convince her we are trying to help if we have to fight her…defenses."

Jonathan was giving him a look that clearly said: _Yeah, and…?_

"We can only give her the choice. I won't promise anything more," Luke finished.

Jonathan's shoulders slumped, but he nodded his head in acceptance. He hadn't really expected much more. And though he wanted the Jedi to succeed in waking Amara, he secretly hoped as the trio moved to the girl's room, that she would give them hell.

* * *

_Icy tendrils of mist twined around her as Cilghal once again found herself on the endless black plain under the starless, moonless black sky. But the wall on the horizon seemed closer, and the plain was not bare—three wooden signs, painted white with red lettering, stood in front of her:_

_'THIS SPACE FOR RENT'_

_'DO NOT READ THIS SIGN'_

_'DON'T STEP ON THE MOME RATHS'_

_"She has a sense of humor, I see," Luke said, grinning as he appeared from the mists and joined her in front of the signs. He looked around—Cilghal could feel the Force tingle around her as he stretched out, searching. "What an amazing place," he said at last._

_"Yes," she replied. She eyed the signs warily; the memory of a cute, fluffy, deadly bunny flashed into her mind. "What are mome raths?"_

_"I've been wondering that myself, but I suggest we don't step on them." The oddity of the place was loosening him up. "I don't sense anything though—we're alone."_

_"For now," Cilghal muttered, and then louder: "Things…people, memories…just appear out of the fog—we won't get any warning."_

_Luke nodded, his face immediately settling back into his impassive, Jedi-cool mask. He approached the signs, and Cilghal followed a step behind, but as soon as they got within a few feet of the 'space for rent' sign, all three disappeared, briefly leaving behind holes in the fog. The two Jedi glanced at each other but continued on toward the wall._

_As they passed over where the signs had been, whispers filled the darkness:_

_"Have you done your homework?"_

_"…did gyre and gimble in the wabe…"_

_"If you could go back in time, would you kill Hitler?"_

_"…all mimsy were the borogroves…"_

_"Why?"_

_"…and the mome raths outgrabe."_

_"Why? Why? WHY!" The whispers became screams: "WHY! WHY! WHY!"_

_Cilghal winced at the unanswerable question. Luke's face didn't change—he was projecting calm and protection—but she could tell that the horrors of this place were beginning to dawn on him. "It won't help," she said, laying a hand on her master's arm, "In fact, it might provoke her. We have to press on—we have to get to the wall."_

_They walked on. The screams abruptly ceased, replaced by an eerie silence that was even worse. It pressed in on them—suffocating them with the lack of sound. Even their footsteps made no noise._

_Something tapped her shoulder, and Cilghal stifled a shriek. She whirled around, only vaguely aware that Luke had also turned at her sudden movement, and came face to face with a young woman with short brown hair and wide, child-like brown eyes._

_"I'm Amy," the girl said without preamble and held out her hand._

_Cilghal shook it. Luke came to stand beside her and shook Amy's hand as well. It can't be that easy, Cilghal thought, no—it is never that easy._

_"I'm lost," Amy said, her voice trembling. "Are you lost?"_

_"Yes," Luke answered. "But we're heading for that wall" He nodded to the looming mass on the horizon. _

"_I can show you the way."_

"_Lead on."_

_Amy beamed at them and skipped ahead. They went on like that in silence for a while, but then Amy stopped and seemed confused—as if she couldn't remember why she was there._

_Luke stood behind her, waiting patiently._

"_No…no," Amy mumbled to someone only she could see, "I'm sorry—so sorry, Amara._

_Please forgive me…I forgive you—forgive me…"_

"_Do you know Amara?" Cilghal asked without thinking._

_Tears filled Amy's eyes and slid silently down her face. Cilghal reached out to her with the Force. Luke laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It's all right," he whispered, "We want to help her."_

_Amy's face hardened. "Why?"_

_"Because we care about her—she needs to wake up. She's safe," Luke continued, but Cilghal could feel Amy's Force signature changing, drifting away. (She's not real, Cilghal scolded herself, You can't forget that.)_

_"You're liars!" Amy hissed and backed away. "Liars!" She spun and ran, but she didn't get far. A hot blaster bolt seared through the fog and struck Amy in the back. A flash—and she was gone. But her childish voice echoed around them, singing:_

_"No one in your life is with you constantly_

_No one is completely on your side…"_

_The last note hung in the air like a sob, and then the fog was rushing around them, and they were flying forward._

_Luke was the first to recover when the fog stopped and cleared a little, revealing an immense glassy lake like a mirror. In the center of the lake stood a lone island with a single, twisted and leafless tree. He helped Cilghal to her feet—she still felt woozy and disoriented._

_"We're supposed to cross," he said._

_Cilghal could only nod; her head ached. During the sudden transportation, she had felt someone trying to pry into her mind and had to fight them off. She could still feel the sharp needles piercing her skull._

_"Are you all right?"_

_"Yes—I will be in a second," she wrapped herself in the Force's comforting embrace, "You say we have to cross?" She peered skeptically at the lake stretching into the distance, its edges lost in the ever-present mist. No telling how deep it was—nothing disturbed the surface that reflected a room that wasn't there. She leaned over the lake, taking in the lovely blue room with an intricately tiled ceiling depicting horned white horses prancing around a fountain._

_"Only one way to find out," Luke said, answering her mental question. He stepped into the water, sending out a shockwave of ripples. She heard Luke let out a sigh—the water was only an inch deep. He walked farther out, but the water didn't get any deeper. The ripples caused by his footsteps glimmered with silver light. Cilghal drew in a steadying breath and joined the Jedi Master. She looked down—her reflection, standing in the blue room, looked up (or was it down?) at her._

_"Come on," Luke called. He was already standing on the velvety black swell of the island. Cilghal trotted up onto its spongy slope and laid a tentative hand on the tree's ebony bark. It was cold—like durasteel after being in the vacuum of space._

_"What do you make of this?" she asked._

_Luke just shook his head before looking over his shoulder. The wall was so close, just on the other side of the lake—the water practically touched its gray visage. "Stay alert," he whispered as he stepped off the other side of the island into the water. Cilghal followed him, and it took her a few steps before she realized something was wrong: Luke's reflection was gone. She stared down into the water beneath her feet—her reflection was missing as well. The blue room was empty._

_"Luke," she hissed, not daring to speak above a whisper as if her voice would shatter the mirror they stood on. He turned and immediately saw what was missing—astonishment and apprehension flitted across his face as he met her frightened eyes. Then his eyes widened at something over her shoulder. Everything in Cilghal fought against turning to look, but she did. She had too._

_Two figures crouched beneath the twisted ebony tree. The figures raised their heads and rose as if they were being pulled up by strings. Cilghal gasped—they were copies of her and Luke, but darker somehow as if no light could escape them: they swallowed it._

_"Do not give in to fear, Cilghal."_

_She jumped at Luke's voice in her head, but then did what he said—she slowed her frantically beating heart and opened herself completely to the dispassion of the Force. Lightsabers split the darkness, hummed in the silence—the reflections had both ignited violet blades. Luke's own green one lanced forward. Dimly wondering if you could die in someone's mind, Cilghal drew her lightsaber; the blue blade made her pink skin look purple. She joined the fray, fighting her own reflection as Luke fought his._

_She slashed again and again at her reflection, threw out blasts of force, and wished that she had practiced fighting more because her reflection expertly dodged or blocked every blow—almost as if it knew what she was going to do before she did it. Cilghal wasn't consoled by the fact that Luke was having as hard a time against his reflection. She snapped her attention back to her own battle almost too late—her reflection's purple blade skimmed her arm.

* * *

_

Jonathan's mouth thinned into a grim line as he watched as the two Jedi bending over Amara trembled. They were already soaked with sweat, and for the past half hour he knew they'd been fighting an intense battle. The smell of burnt flesh permeated the room. Both Jedi (the Mon Calamarian more than Luke) were covered with shallow slashes that had bled briefly before being cauterized. Jonathan recognized them as glancing lightsaber wounds—he was just glad neither of them had lost a limb yet. _How is Amara doing this?_ He stood and moved beside the bed, careful not to touch the Jedi.

"You have to let them help you, Amara," he whispered, lacing his fingers through her own and giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "You don't have to fight anymore. Let them help you…I won't let anything happen to you—I promise…just wake up."

* * *

_Her reflection froze, its blade inches from her bullet-shaped head. Cilghal, panting, wondered what to do—she felt that cutting down her enemy now would somehow be wrong._

_"I won't let anything happen to you—I promise…" Jonathan's voice blew across the water, scattering the fog and sending it swirling in graceful pirouettes. For a moment, the plain didn't seem so black, so dark and cold. But as quickly as the warmth appeared it was gone, and her reflection was once again turning menacing eyes on Cilghal's fallen form. But before her reflection could strike, Cilghal cut her opponent cleanly in half. The image dissolved, and when she looked down, her reflection was once again below her in the blue room. She glanced around her, searching for Luke and caught sight of him just as his green blade plunged through his reflection's chest—and then his reflection was once again safely below his feet. The lake dried up, sinking into the plain. The tree and island vanished._

_Luke walked over to Cilghal and helped her to her feet. They both winced as their wounds stretched painfully. He looked about to say something, but there were no words to describe…that battle with themselves._

_Cilghal kept telling herself it wasn't real, but it had been real—painfully real. Some of her wounds were beginning to bleed again. They walked in silence to the wall. She laid a hand on the hard gray surface, pressed against it with the Force, and felt Luke doing the same, but the wall stood firm. There was no door, no crack—Cilghal felt like they were being laughed at._

_And then they were—a cackling, evil laugh lashed against her back. She saw Luke stiffen behind her, recognition flickering across his face followed swiftly by horror. But the emotions were gone so quickly that she wondered if she had imagined them as she turned to face this new threat._

_But only a lone stormtrooper stood before her, his hand resting easily on the blaster at his hip. "Don't hurt her," he said, his voice mechanical, but Cilghal sensed the deeper feeling behind his words—it wasn't love, not romantic love at least, but it was close._

_"We won't," Luke insisted._

_The stormtrooper's hand clenched the blaster's grip, drawing it slightly from its holster. "Don't hurt her."_

_"Look out!" Cilghal shouted as hundreds of red bolts flew from the darkness. The stormtrooper turned, and the bolts smashed into his chest, ripping through his armor. He disintegrated before their eyes; his mangled body fell at their feet. The horrible raspy laughter hammered in her ears, and thousands of stormtroopers stepped from the fog, ringing them in._

_And then Cilghal needed every ounce of the Force to keep her standing—two black figures stepped through the white line of stormtroopers. One was a bent old man in a long black cloak—he was the one laughing. The other towered above everyone else, his mechanical breathing chilled her to the bone. "Vader…"_

_Darth Vader approached the stormtrooper's corpse; his cape fluttered behind him. "I find your lack of faith disturbing," he said, nudging the body with one black boot, hands on hips. The Emperor laughed harder. Luke looked like he had seen a ghost—in a way he had. "But not," Vader continued, looking up at the two Jedi, "as disturbing as that." Vader stood aside, revealing the Emperor wearing only a tiny, hot pink thong and prancing around in a facsimile of ballet._

_Cilghal realized how tired she was at that moment—and how sick of this…world, ridiculous world. She wanted to throw up as the Emperor went through a series of leaps. She looked at Luke instead—the lines on his face were deeper, more pronounced. He was starring at Darth Vader._

_"You've come far, Dr. Rave," Vader said, "But you will go no farther."_

_"Get out get out get out getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetout…" the wind hissed, and suddenly only Vader, his red lightsaber humming and sparking, stood before them. The Emperor, the stormtroopers were gone. The black plain stretched into the fog—the wall was cold and solid against their backs. Luke took a step forward, reaching out as if in a dream, "Father…"_

_Vader's mask actually registered surprise—the Sith hesitated. "Who are you?" he asked._

_Luke shook his head; his eyes lost their dreamy quality. "Luke Skywalker." A gasp rose up from the plain. Cilghal felt the wall trembling behind her—a crack split the air, but the wall did not break._

_"Who?" Vader was shrinking, morphing into a small, black-cloaked figure. The cloak's hood hid the person's face, but it was a girl's voice that spoke, desperate, disbelieving: "Who?"_

_Jonathan's voice fell from the black sky again: "…I'll protect you…you can trust them…" The crack in the wall grew._

_The cloaked girl was shaking. "Who are you? Tell me!"_

_"Luke Skywalker—I'm here to help. I'm a Jedi."_

_Cilghal stepped forward. "I'm also a Jedi—I'm Cilghal."_

_"…you're safe…" Jonathan whispered. Cilghal silently thanked the sergeant for disobeying the Jedi's order that he was not to interfere—the girl trusted him._

_"Skywalker?" the girl muttered, pressing a thin white hand against her hidden head. She recognized the name._

_"…wake up…Amara…" The girl looked up at the starless sky as if Jonathan's voice was rain falling onto a barren desert._

_"Amara," Cilghal ventured—the girl's gaze locked on the Mon Cal._

_"I am Number 314," she sneered, "314." She looked back up at the sky. "Do you hear me? 314!" she screamed. "314! 314!"_

_"…Amara…" The wall was crumbling._

_"I'm 314," she sobbed; her hands clenched at her sides. Cilghal was overwhelmed by the girl's anguish._

_"…Amara…"_

_The wall fell—a blinding white light pierced the darkness, flooding the plain and evaporating the fog. The blast knocked both Luke and Cilghal off their feet. When Cilghal looked up, she saw that the girl's hood had fallen back. She had long, wavy brown hair that tumble past her waist and her gray-green eyes sparkled in her heart-shaped face. She flashed Cilghal a half-smile that did not reach her eyes. There was still darkness and rubble and fog just beyond the light, threatening. Amara turned and helped Luke to his feet, giving him a genuine smile, and giggling, "Luke, I am your father."_

_Cilghal's vision blurred and went dark…

* * *

_

She opened her eyes to see Luke grinning at her. With a relieved sigh, she removed her fin-like hands from Amara's head. Jonathan was at her side.

"Did it work—is she all right?" he asked, gazing down at Amara's face. She looked relaxed now—like she was sleeping dreamlessly.

"Yes," Luke said, "with your help."

"My…help?"

"You talked to her—interfered just like we told you not to."

"But she's going to be fine now, right?" He needed to hear Luke say it. He was still grasping Amara's small hand, worried she might slip away. He leaned over her, reaching out to stroke her cheek…

…And Amara opened her eyes.

* * *

"No one in your life is with you constantly…" from _I Know Him So Well_, Chess (and if you haven't heard any of the music from **Chess** you should) 


	14. Stars

_**Author's Note: **I'm so sorry I haven't updated for a while, but my computer (Mervin) was down. I was so happy to get more reviews—I've been in agony, wanting to write (especially now that I've gotten a great idea for later chapters…cackles). Now that school is over, I will update more often. I only own my characters…now to the story…_

Stars

Amara sat stiffly on the end of the hospital bed (the sheets wrapped around her legs had felt suffocating), poised for flight—although the way her thin legs were shaking she doubted she'd get far. She glanced at the closed door, half expecting it to open and for _him_ to jump in and shout "surprise!" She surveyed the others in the room: a squid who sounded like a female, a dark-haired, angular young man, and Luke Skywalker (he alone kept her from running). They watched her as if she might break apart at any moment—and perhaps she would. The awkward silence that had filled the room after she had screamed for them to get away from her was deafening, but in her head, someone was sobbing and remembering…

"Amara?" The dark-haired man broke through her thoughts, his voice filling her head like a warm breeze and blew away the darkness hanging at the edges of her mind. _I know his voice—but from where?_

"Who are you?" she asked, not quite meeting his penetrating blue eyes.

"Sgt. Jonathan Knight," he answered, straightening.

_I know your voice. It's a nice voice. Who are you?_ Amara nodded, biting her lip as she tried to figure out how she knew him. She remembered being picked up and held, but…she shook her head, unconsciously holding it in her hands as she tried to block out the memories…

"Sgt. Knight rescued you," Luke said and restrained Jonathan from going over to comfort the distressed girl.

Amara looked up; her eyes flickered from the Jedi Master to Sgt. Knight. The sergeant's face was carefully blank as if he was trying to conceal deeper emotions. _Rescued me?_ _No. It's all some sick joke—another of his games. _But then she met Sgt. Knight's eyes, and all her doubt dissolved for a heartbeat. He would protect her. _No…don't protect me… run. I'll kill you._ Amara looked away from him, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

"You're safe, Amara," Luke continued, sensing her emotions, "He can't hurt you anymore."

She nodded her head, her face still pressed into her knees. "How—how was I…" she mumbled.

"A salvage freighter stumbled across the…research facility you were being held in. They got your message." Amara didn't respond, just waited for Luke to continue. "They reported their discovery to Vice Admiral Harris—he's in charge of the Belkadan outpost, where we are—and he sent out a rescue party. Sgt. Knight is commander of the squad that found you."

A headache was building at the back of her head. She couldn't care less where she was at that moment: one question hammered through her mind. "And…and…_him_?"

"Dr. Rave…" Amara shuddered but lifted her fingers in a small wave to indicate that Luke could continue. "Dr. Rave has been taken into Republic custody. He will stand trial for war crimes in a month," Luke broke off, but she knew what he had left out.

"I will have to testify against him," Amara whispered, struggling to keep her voice from trembling at the thought of seeing _him_ again.

"Only if you're strong enough…" Jonathan began.

"I will have to testify," Amara repeated more forcefully as if saying it again would destroy the fear threatening to overwhelm her. She pushed all thoughts of the doctor from her mind and locked her eyes on Luke Skywalker. "So the war is over?"

The Jedi Master blinked then smiled. "Yes—the Rebels won."

"Of course." She could feel that Luke wanted to ask her more—why she wasn't surprised at the war's outcome. She had a vague memory of telling him that she was his father, of Vader, but that had been just a dream. "Strange how all that advanced military training the stormtroopers went through goes out the window as soon as they're faced with a bunch of teddy bears, eh?"

The squid (_Cilghal wasn't it?_) snorted. Luke looked surprised. "How do you know about the Battle of Endor?"

Amara shrugged and smiled, happier now that the mood had lightened.

Luke didn't want to let the subject drop, but Cilghal stepped into the conversation. "I guess we'll find out eventually, but she doesn't look like she wants to talk about it now, Master. And I think there are more important and urgent matters to discuss." Amara frowned at the squid, feeling the waves of comfort the Jedi healer was projecting. Cilghal turned her large eyes on Amara and smiled. "I'm sure you want to go home," she said, not noticing how Amara immediately stiffened, "and I'm eager to get you back to a familiar environment where you can fully heal." Amara felt suffocated by the blankets of protection and understanding Cilghal was wrapping her in with the Force. It was all a trap, a trap—the question was coming. "Where are you from?"

Amara squeezed her eyes shut. "Get out," she hissed, balling her hands into fists and flinched expecting a blow that never fell.

"What?" Cilghal asked, confused at this sudden change.

"GET OUT!" Amara screamed. "I will _never_ tell you! Get OUT!" She was shaking, her body spasming with remembered pain. And she was crying. _Dammit—stop! Don't let him see._ She had been safe—now that was gone. When she opened her eyes, she would see _him_ leering down at her. She could hear his voice: _Oh, 314, you really believed someone would rescue you?

* * *

_

The two Jedi had used the Force to drag him out of the room, and now in the hall, Amara's sobs filtering through the door, Jonathan faced them, his rage honed into a fine point, his body tense. _How dare they?_ He had never felt so powerless, unable to comfort Amara or fight back. "If you _ever_…" he hissed.

"She needs time to sort out what's happened alone," Luke said calmly. "She still has a lot of healing to do—she's very distressed…"

"Well, if Cilghal hadn't asked her…"

"How was I supposed to know she would react like that?" Cilghal said, her voice quiet and tinged with guilt. "None of Dr. Rave's surviving files even mentioned why he kept her—it was just those damn holovids of him…you know. Apparently it had something to do with her home planet."

"Apparently," Jonathan said sarcastically.

"Look, I'm sorry I brought it up, but I can't take my question back now." Cilghal hung her head—she had failed again.

Luke laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and gave Jonathan a warning look. "Any of us could have made the same mistake—no one knew. She needs time now…"

"She shouldn't be left alone," Jonathan said, crossing his arms over his chest. "She could hurt herself or try to escape…" He planted his feet, his slender body as stiff and sharp as a knife blade. "I'm staying."

Luke sighed. "Fine, but you will remain outside her door. Understand?"

"Yes," the sergeant growled.

"We'll check back tomorrow."

Jonathan watched the two Jedi walk down the hall (Cilghal's shoulders were shaking) and disappear around a corner. He waited exactly half an hour, long after Amara's sobs had faded away, before he entered her room again.

* * *

The room was dark. Amara stood before the windows, silhouetted in the starlight, staring out into space. She didn't turn when the door whooshed open, and for a moment, Jonathan wondered if she had even heard him enter.

"I never saw the stars." Her voice floated to him almost from another world.

"What?" he asked, silently crossing the room to stand beside her. He gazed down at her face, pale and soft in the darkness.

She didn't look at him. "There were no windows where I was kept. I never saw the stars." He could hear the sadness in her voice as she reached out to lay one hand on the window. "But these aren't my stars anyway."

He gazed out into space with her, wondering which glimmering dot warmed her home. After years of space travel and battles on countless worlds, he had forgotten that for some, the stars never changed—familiar constellations were always in the sky above. _Had she never been away from her planet before this?_ He longed to ask her, but… "They're out there. They just look different from here."

"Perhaps." He turned to her, about to ask when she cut him off: "Don't ask me," she pleaded, looking up at him with pain-filled green eyes, "please—I can't tell you. Not yet. I…I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"It's just…_he_ always asked me that before…" She shook her head and looked back out at the stars. "I believe you," she said so softly he almost missed it.

"Believe me?"

"I believe you'll protect me—that I'm safe. Your voice…I trust you."

Jonathan had no idea how hard it had been for her to utter those words, but he knew he had been given a very precious gift. He lifted his hand to brush a stray hair from her face, but she flinched away. He dropped his hand.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I… please leave."

"I understand," he replied, "I'll be right outside if you need me." Jonathan left her at the window, and smiled at her mumbled "thank you" before the door closed between them.

"'Bout time, sergeant."

Jonathan spun. His fist stopped an inch away from Marcus' smiling face. Marcus raised an eyebrow. Jonathan lowered his hand to his side. "What now, Marcus?"

"Just came to force you to take a break. The girl's up—you can relax." Jonathan was about to protest, but Marcus held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it. My commanding officer is going to get a full night's sleep, and don't worry about Amara." He waved to someone behind Jonathan and two shadows detached themselves from the wall, coming to stand next to Marcus. Jonathan stared at Beloda and Doug who simply grinned in reply.

"It seems my whole squad is against me," he groaned, but a smile tugged at his lips.

"Amara will be under constant surveillance—two honor guards will be around at all times and will be replaced with a new pair every couple of hours," Marcus continued, "And you better be grateful. We're still on leave." The Vice Admiral had put the entire squad on indefinite leave after their last mission—in all honesty there was nothing else for them to do. As Harris had put it "peace sucked."

Jonathan sighed and allowed himself to be led away by his best friend, throwing over his shoulder to the guards: "Take care of her."


	15. Forgiveness

_**Author's Note: **Happens every time: I have lots of time to write, and I get writer's block. I only own my characters._

Forgiveness

There was a bit of a commotion outside her room. Amara threw off the light top sheet, pushed her thick brown hair from her face, and crept across the room to the door. She pressed her ear against the cool surface, straining to hear what was going on. She didn't have to strain too hard.

"…I'm the goddamn Vice Admiral!" a male voice boomed, "I think I have the right to see who _I_ had rescued whenever _I_ fucking feel like it!"

"I'm sorry, sir," a calmer voice replied, "but as I said, Ms. Richards is still sleeping, and Sgt. Knight insisted that she was not to be disturbed until…"

"Who, may I ask, is in charge of this damn base, _corporal_?" The Vice Admiral didn't wait for a reply. "Ms. Richards has been asleep for the past two weeks—she can't very well be tired. Now…"

"But, sir! What she suffered—she's…"

"If she survived half of what I've been told she did, then I'm sure she won't drop dead by being woken up early. I'm not that frightening. Now, I _order_ you to stand aside, Jagger, or I will charge you with insubordination."

Amara jumped away from the door seconds before it opened, narrowly missing being bowled over by the massive man that strode into the room followed closely by two smaller men: a pale, skeletal human with black eyes and twitchy blond boy. (Of course, compared to the first man who she assumed was the Vice Admiral, anyone short of Jabba the Hutt would appear tiny. His personality was crushing.) She remained pressed against the wall beside the door so none of them saw her. She stifled a giggle as the two guards attempted to hold back the Vice Admiral—her first impression of an overgrown pig was dashed by his quickness and obvious intolerance for stupidity. When he saw that her bed was empty, the Vice Admiral rolled his eyes and turned to the guards. "So…she's asleep is she…" he broke off when his sharp eyes spotted her by the door. His round face split into a good-natured grin.

Amara smiled shyly back and wiggled her fingers at him. The two guards glanced at each other and sighed, but the Vice Admiral walked over to her and extended his club-like hand. For a split second, she thought he was going to hit her, but she forced the sensation aside. Amara's own hand was engulfed by his, but his grip was surprisingly gentle. He gave her a little bow before releasing her hand. "Glad to see you've decided to grace us with your presence, my dear Ms. Richards. I'm Vice Admiral Harris—came to ask if you would join me for breakfast, but these mutinous bastards," he continued, nodding his head to the two guards, "seemed to think that a hearty meal was comparable to a whipping. They didn't think you'd be up to it. I hope that is not the case?"

Amara got the impression that he would drag her along no matter how she answered, but she appreciated not being treated like a porcelain doll. He wouldn't give her time to dwell on the past—the nightmares waiting to strike whenever she was alone in the dark. She awarded him with a mocking curtsy (suddenly aware that she was only wearing the equivalent of an over-sized T-Shirt), and said, raising a corner of her mouth, "I would be honored to join you, Vice Admiral, but first I…"

"What is going on here?"

She turned to see Sgt. Knight frozen in the doorway, flanked by the two Jedi and a muscular man with shaggy, light-brown hair. The sergeant's voice, though soft, had cut through the room and chilled her to the bone, but now she saw that he was trying not to smile as he surveyed the scene before him: her in her T-Shirt, blushing, the massive Vice Admiral looking quite outraged by the interruption, and the relieved expressions of his men.

"Sgt. Knight, I will never know how you do that," the Vice Admiral said with an annoyed shake of his head, but his eyes still flashed dangerously, "and don't take that tone with _me_."

"I apologize, sir, but I don't retract my question."

"For someone who worships the rulebook, you and your men have developed a disturbing tendency towards insolence, soldier." Amara felt like the room was tearing apart, torn between two powers. But while the Vice Admiral filled the room, Sgt. Knight seemed to suck out all the air—the difference between a blazing sun and a black hole. There was no malice between the two though. In fact, she got the distinct impression that both men enjoyed butting heads. "I was just asking Ms. Richards to breakfast. No objections I hope, sergeant? Because I don't give a damn."

Sgt. Knight opened his mouth to retort, but Amara cut him off: "I won't be going anywhere in my night clothes so everyone clear off. Duke it out in the hall if you must." The muscular man with Jonathan laughed and bowed deeply to her, muttering "milady," before swinging an arm around the sergeant's shoulders and guiding him from the room. The others followed, and soon she was blissfully alone and thankful that the door muffled the shouts now erupting in the hall. Her head ached—there had been too many people and no way to escape—and she pressed her icy white hand over her eyes.

But as soon as her eyelids squeezed shut, cold blue eyes, like a blind man's, filled the darkness. She could hear him laughing: _"At least I know that when you close your eyes, it's me you see above you, me you dream about."_

"Damn you," she hissed aloud, snapping her eyes open. She busied herself with dressing, only half-aware of what she was doing. She suddenly wished she wasn't alone—that Sgt. Knight was there or anyone who…just anyone. The voices had fallen silent outside her door.

_Amy wasn't crying when the stormtroopers brought her back. Her face had a blank, dreamy look, but Amara knew—knew with instinctive certainty what he had done. Amy sat down gingerly next to her but remained silent. Amara gently stroked the girl's tousled hair. Amy's mouth fell open and a horrible keening sound emerged from her throat—she…_

There was a knock on the door. "Amara," it was Luke, "are you all right?"

"Yes," she shouted. _You don't need to know. Stay out of my head._ Amara shoved against the intrusion—against that someone else in her mind. "Coming." She thought about not thinking, pasted a smile on her face, and opened the door.

Only the Vice Admiral and Luke Skywalker stood in the hallway. "Sgt. Knight and his squad remembered they had duties elsewhere," the Vice Admiral answered her unasked question, "Master Skywalker, however," here he made a sudden, angry gesture with his hand, and Amara winced despite herself, but the Vice Admiral didn't notice, "seemed to think he has something to discuss with you that cannot wait until after breakfast." He glared at the Jedi. "So, he will join us and ask what he wants in my presence."

_Well, this is going to be an enjoyable morning.

* * *

_

Amara shut the door in Luke's face, furious that the stupid sliding doors wouldn't slam. He had asked her—pressed her before she was ready for answers. Where are you from? How do you know? What did _he_ do? Only the Vice Admiral's presence had held him back, and Amara would forever be grateful to Harris for that, but the question's in the Jedi's eyes as he had stared at her across the table had drilled into her head, searching—like _him_. And she had seen it all, lived it all again while sipping tea and smiling at the Vice Admiral's tales of battle. _How dare he?_

She went to the windows and stared unseeingly out into space. _I have to get out._ After breakfast, the Vice Admiral had bidden her farewell, and Luke had offered to walk her back to her room. He had been gentle—ever so gently prodding at open wounds, and it had been his gentleness more than anything that had grated on her nerves. "I will not break," she had wanted to scream at him, "Just beat me, beat it out of me, beat me senseless! I understand that! Just don't you dare try to understand—don't you dare be gentle!" _I have to get out…away…home._

Amara leaned her head against the icy pane and worried her lower lip, resisting the urge to bang her head against the window. _"The questions never go away, 314,"_ his voice slid into her head,_ "you will never be safe, never escape me."_

_Shut up._ Her hands clutched her head, and she slid down the wall, curling into a ball below the windows—the hard metal of the floor oddly comforting beneath her.

_Afterwards, the stormtroopers seemed kinder—pity somehow registering on their emotionless helmets. But they did not speak to her, and they said nothing to him. They remained stormtroopers to the end, and she never hated them for it._

_"Have I won, 314?" he asked, leaning over her crumpled body to whisper in her ear, "Are you finally broken, my beautiful one?" She punched him, her fist crashing into his mouth. The stormtroopers had held her back, but their hands weren't cruel. "Still fighting—good," he sneered, wiping the blood from his mouth, "I was beginning to think you were going to become like your dear friend Amy."_

"_Don't say her name!" she screamed._

"_Don't say 'Amy'? Why not? Amy was pathetic, weak…unworthy."_

_She screamed again—all her rage and sorrow ripping from her in one terrible shriek. He beat her. They held her…but their hands weren't cruel._

Amara jerked awake. She was still crouched on the floor, her back to the wall beneath the windows. Someone was knocking, but she made no move to answer, instead leaning her head on her knees. The door swished open anyway. She looked up, frowning.

Sgt. Knight frowned back, anger flashing briefly behind his eyes before the wall descended and his face became inscrutable.

_So now you are here, great defender—where were you this morning when I needed you?_ "Normally, when a person does not answer their door, it means they do not wish to be disturbed," she said acidly.

"And normally, I do not knock," he replied, his voice emotionless. A heavy silence choked the room. Amara stood and turned her back on the sergeant, pretending to gaze at the stars. He stepped beside her, their shoulders inches apart. "I came to see if you would like a tour of the station," he said softly.

Amara almost declined, almost told him to beat it, but just as she opened her mouth she realized she was being unreasonable—he just wanted to help, he'd saved her. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His face was drawn, but when he caught her looking at him, he gave her a little smile. She couldn't help but smile back. _I trust you._ "All right." He nodded, but made no move to touch her, and she followed him out of the room.

In the hallways they walked side-by-side, and he was careful to avoid large crowds, taking her by seldom-used routes around the base. Sgt. Knight made a few comments about the station—some interesting facts and stories—and never brought up the subject of her past or even the breakfast that morning as if he knew it had been terrible for her. They came to a stop in front of a floor to ceiling window that provided an expansive view of Belkadan.

Amara unfocused her eyes, imagining that the sparkling planet below her was Earth, and leaned against the window, feeling as though she could fall out into space if she lost her balance. She felt the sergeant's eyes on her back—something nagged at the corner of her mind…a memory. "The Vice Admiral said I was asleep for weeks."

"Yes."

"And you talked to me, didn't you, Sgt. Knight?" she said without turning around, "That whole time?"

"Yes." His voice sounded distant, defensive.

She faced him. His leanly muscled arms were crossed over his chest—he stood as if waiting for a blow. His blue eyes were dark and veiled. _I won't ask you why, Knight, don't worry. _"Thank you," she whispered. Sgt. Knight blinked. "It…meant a lot," she finished lamely. It had meant more than a lot—that kind voice had kept her alive.

He nodded his head once, but said nothing. _What did I expect? _At last he lowered his arms to his sides and asked, "Is there anything else you would like to see?"

Amara sighed. The base wasn't all that exciting—it was like a high tech office building sent into orbit. But then an idea struck her: "The stormtroopers from…" she shook her head and continued, "Did you capture any? Are there any here?"

Sgt. Knight seemed surprised by her question—why would she care about stormtroopers who very likely caused a lot of her suffering? He frowned. "Yes."

"May I see them?"

He wanted to ask her why—she could see it in his eyes—but he simply nodded his head and led her to an elevator that would take them to the prison level.

* * *

Jonathan stood tensed outside the door of detention block 2C where a number of stormtroopers that had been captured on IARF were being held in individual cells, waiting for Amara to reemerge. When they had walked in to the large, low-ceilinged room, the unarmored stormtroopers had turned around with dull interest to see who had entered their prison, but when they saw Amara, they had instantly jumped to their feet, crowding against the bars.

How strange and naked they all looked without their helmets—many emotions had flitted across their faces as they looked at Amara: trepidation, relief, shame, wonder… And Amara had insisted that he wait outside while she talked to them. He had reluctantly agreed, somehow knowing that she needed to see them, be with them now that their situations were reversed, and she was the one standing outside the cage looking in.

But now, after half an hour, he questioned his judgment. There was no rule that said she couldn't see them, they couldn't get out and harm her, but he was worried all the same. He didn't like not knowing. He wouldn't go in though—he wouldn't disrespect her privacy again. He had known the breakfast had not gone well that morning, that the Jedi had pushed too hard, and he had gone to check on her. When she didn't answer his knocks—_I actually knocked, dammit_—something in him had clenched with fear. She wouldn't hurt herself would she? No, she had just been sitting under the window, leaving him to worry outside.

_What is she doing in there?_ His fingers were a breath away from the door controls when the door slid open, and Amara stepped out.

She wasn't smiling, but her face had a thoughtful, contented look. She noticed his hand still hovering by the controls and raised an eyebrow. "Thank you for resisting, sergeant." He lowered his hand. His mouth twitched. She looked away from him down the gray hall, her eyes unfocused. Her voice was soft and faraway: "I forgave them."


	16. Why They Died

_**Author's Note: **This is a short, but essential chapter: the birth of Number 314. Enjoy._

Why They Died

_Then…_

"Kill me."

RL-213's hand strayed unconsciously to the blaster rifle at his hip as he looked down at the girl huddled in the corner of the cell. Her eyes—now the misty green of Endor's forests and sunken—were unguarded for once and bored into his helmet. He noticed the way she shuddered with each breath, the bones of her chest and shoulders stuck out prominently beneath her bruised skin, and her face were gaunt and tense with pain. She was dying.

"If you care at all, end this…_please_."

He drew his blaster and aimed it at her forehead with trained steadiness, his movements slow and deliberate. His finger rested against the trigger. _She's fought so long. She has a right to die—the right to die on her own terms. She's fought so long._ He looked down his blaster's sight—she didn't blink. A tired smile played across her lips.

"Shoot."

His finger tightened on the trigger…then relaxed. He let the blaster fall to his side unfired. "No."

Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. She attempted to stand, swaying and clutching at the bars of her cage. RL-213 tenderly grasped her upper arm, his whole hand easily circling it, steadying her. She didn't pull away, but her face was masked and empty when she looked at him. His chest tightened. "He's waiting," she said, her voice dead.

He nodded, releasing her arm. She exited the cell, and he followed a step behind. She walked slowly, each step seemingly pained her, but she refused his offered hand with a silent shake of her head. Her shoulders slumped. RL-213 felt as though he was taking her to her execution. They reached the door to the examination room. He hesitated.

They were alone in the hall, the thick gray door before them, his hand hovered over the door controls, and he watched her breath. For endless moments he watched her. She straightened her shoulders, but did not turn to him—her eyes remained fixed on the door. And with a soundless sigh, he opened it.

"I was beginning to worry, 314," Dr. Rave said with a cold smile as they entered, "but I see my assumptions were correct—one stormtrooper was enough to handle you." He came to stand in front of the girl so that their bodies were inches apart. She did not flinch—she didn't even look at him. "Of course," he continued softly, "I probably could have just called for you, and you would have come trotting to me like the little dog you are, wouldn't' you, 314?"

A resounding _smack_ echoed off the metal walls. RL-213, who had rejoined his squad mates beside the door, grasped his blaster's grip. Amara was shaking with rage, but the doctor simply laughed and rubbed his cheek. "Oh, 314, my beautiful one, I knew a silly thing like death wouldn't break you." He moved in closer. RL-213's blaster was half-drawn. Amara backed away from Dr. Rave but wasn't fast enough to dodge the fist that smashed into her face. "But don't _ever_ strike me again," the doctor finished, his words no more than a hiss, as he towered over her. Amara struggled to sit up. Dr. Rave drew back his fist to strike again—her arm flew up in a feeble attempt to shield herself—but the blow never fell.

* * *

A red laser shot tore the air centimeters from Dr. Rave's head. Amara twisted around in time to see one stormtrooper—her stormtrooper—yank himself free from his comrade's grasp. He raised his blaster, aiming at the center of the doctor's chest, and as he did so, the other troopers turned their blasters on him. But they did not fire. Dr. Rave was laughing—a low, raspy sound devoid of mirth. Amara didn't turn to look at him; her eyes were fixed on her stormtrooper, trying to see the face behind the helmet. He seemed torn—his hands were steady, but he shifted from foot to foot, his helmet's black eyes glaring at the doctor.

"You are more charming than I gave you credit for, 314," Dr. Rave said behind her, completely unconcerned by the blaster still pointed at his chest. Some of the stormtroopers lowered their weapons. Amara listened to the doctor's footsteps: a soft _clocking_ as he came to stand directly behind her. His hand tangled itself in her hair, sending shivers down her spine. She tried to pull away, but he jerked her head back, not releasing his hold on her hair, and yanked her to her feet so that her body shielded him. Her stormtrooper gripped his blaster tighter, but did not lower it.

"Release her," he rasped in his mechanized voice. Dr. Rave laughed again, his breath stirring her hair. _I have to stop him._ Amara swung her heal back into the doctor's shin. He grunted but did not release her—instead, she felt the cold tip of a blaster muzzle press against her ribs.

"Stand down, RL-213," Dr. Rave ordered. Amara could feel him smiling. Her stormtrooper—RL-213—tore his eyes off the doctor and looked at her, a lingering glance that made her stomach clench with fear. He lowered his blaster, and then the cold pressure against her ribs was gone…a scream caught in Amara's throat._ Stop. No._

The shot tore through RL-213's shoulder. Amara jerked forward, out of Dr. Rave's grasp. RL-213 was raising his blaster. He was steps away from her. The other stormtroopers opened fire—red bolts lanced into his back. His body contorted into an arch and hung there for a second as the fire disintegrated his armor. The smell of charred flesh filled the room.

And then he was falling, and he was too far away for her to catch. His body folded in on itself and crumpled to the floor, dead. Amara collapsed beside him and began tugging at his helmet. It seemed important to know what he looked like—to know his face…his expression…_What's your name? Your name! Your real name—tell me…wake up…tell me…_Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Tears ran down her face and dripped onto his helmet. _Why won't it come off? I have to see you—_hands closed around her frail shoulders. Someone was tearing her away. She sobbed harder, and her hands flew to her mouth, trying to hold them in. The stormtroopers were lifting his body—Amara closed her eyes, but tears leaked beneath her eyelids. _Stop it._

She allowed herself to be lead away. A door opened and closed, but she did not open her eyes. She was pushed into a chair.

"Tissue?"

Amara froze at the sound of Dr. Rave's mocking voice. Her throat burned; her tears dried, and opened her eyes and glared at him where he sat behind his desk observing her with an amused smirk. There were no words—no words for the hatred that blazed in her soul.

"Honestly, 314, you should be quite proud of yourself," the doctor said conversationally, as if she had just received an 'A' on a test, "You managed to do what no one else ever has: You seduced a stormtrooper. He gave his life for you!" Dr. Rave tapped his chin with one long, pale finger and gazed at the ceiling. "You know, I'm going to have to report this—send a message to the academy—their training program needs improvement." He grinned at her.

Amara stood. "You disgust me," she spat, but his words throbbed inside her skull. _He died for me. I killed him. I killed him._

Dr. Rave raised a blond eyebrow. "Do I, 314?" In one fluid movement, he rose to feet and leaned across the desk, meeting her furious gaze without flinching. "Or is there someone you hate more?" he asked. "I can see it in your eyes, you know," he continued, his voice like black silk, his face inches from hers, "What do you see when you look in the mirror?"

"I haven't seen a mirror for the past…for the past…"

"You care too much, 314—you loved them, and they loved you. That's why they died."

Amara shook her head. "_You_ killed them," she hissed, only half-believing it.

"No, my dear," Dr. Rave murmured, giving her a pitying look, "You killed them."

"No…_no_…you did…" Her eyes seemed to be getting dark, like she was looking down a tunnel. Her head pounded—and Dr. Rave was silently laughing. Amara swayed.

_She was kneeling in a perfectly round clearing covered in velvety black grass and surrounded by the white husks of dead birches. She was little more than a shadow, starving and thin. Her white dress hung limply off one of her shoulders. Death stood behind her. And They were beyond the circle, waiting._

_She was crying blood. For a few seconds, she watched the red drops stain the whiteness of her dress._

_"I don't feel anything," she whispered, "I bleed and feel nothing."_

A cold, dry hand wrapped around her throat. His thumb traced her jaw line. Amara watched the doctor numbly as if she was watching a movie. It wasn't her body he was touching.

"Now, 314," he said, "Where are you from?"


	17. Hero

_**Author's Note: **I am so so so so sooooo sorry for making you wait. But you try writing when you have to watch a six-year-old brother who must constantly be entertained. And it will be at least two weeks before I update again because I'm going on vacation. Sorry. This is the last "Then" chapter by the by…_

Hero

"The last two supply ships never arrived, sir."

"Then we'll simply have to make cuts, lieutenant."

The young officer frowned—deep worry lines already creased his brow. "Rations are already below Imperial standards. The base cannot continue to operate…"

"It will have to," Dr. Rave retorted distractedly, his eyes fixed on the live feed from cell 314A. The girl in the cell was curled on the floor. She wasn't moving.

"But, sir…"

"Under no circumstances are we to reveal our location, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant saluted and left, his face a mask of resignation. Dr. Rave had no time for him. There were no hyperdrive-equipped ships left to escape in; all had been pulled from the base months ago, supposedly for military operations. Calling for aid was forbidden; the research facility was too important to risk Rebel discovery. If the Empire decided the base had exhausted its purpose, they would starve to death in their enormous, expensive coffin, unacknowledged and unmourned. That was the way of the galaxy, and the doctor had more immediate problems anyway: Number 314 was slipping away from him.

"Bring me 314," he said into his communicator. Ever since the short rebellion by the stormtrooper, the squads assigned to guard his most precious prisoner were rotated daily, ensuring that no trooper would get too attached to the girl. No one should distract her from him. _Of course, it wouldn't matter now_, he thought bitterly. She lived in her own little world, oblivious to everything around her. She didn't answer his questions, didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge his beatings with more than a whimper…she'd simply stopped fighting, and he hated her for it. But worry also swirled beneath his breast.

The door to his office whisked open, and two stormtroopers, with 314 between them, entered the room.

"Leave us," Lucius whispered, his ice-blue gaze riveted on the girl standing listlessly before him. The stormtroopers exited without a backward glance—seemingly unaware of their charge's existence. When the door closed behind them, Lucius took a tentative step forward. Number 314 trembled, her depleted muscles struggling to keep her erect, but her eyes stared forward, wide and blank, at a point somewhere beyond him or between them or inside herself. She didn't blink. He reached out a hand to her—she looked like he could snap her between his fingertips, a touch and she would crumble—his fingers were a breath away from her cheek. He could feel the cold of her skin, the cold of one already dead, and he let his hand fall.

Any anger he'd felt toward her slipped away until he felt hollow and alone. Dread seeped into his bones. _She can't die. I won't let her die. _He reached out to her again, stepping forward so that there was only a small gap between their bodies; he grasped one of her limp, icy hands and pressed it to his cheek. "I need you," he said, pressing his lips against her forehead so that his words were only a soft breath across her pallid skin. He drew her into his arms and slowly rocked her back and forth. "Amara…"

He felt her stiffen against his chest—he hadn't meant to say her name. _I didn't…I shouldn't have…damn her…_

"Let go of me," 314 rasped.

Without a word he stepped away from her, relief fighting with rage across his face until he managed to school his features into an unemotional mask. 314 staggered after losing the support of his body, and she almost fell, steadying herself just in time. _Would I have caught her if she'd fallen?_ _Yes_, came the answer from somewhere deep in his mind.

"Sit down," Lucius said through gritted teeth. She was trembling again; her breathing fast and shallow. A wild glint flashed in her emerald eyes. She didn't move. "Sit down, 314," he said again, annoyance creeping into his voice. _She's going to hurt herself…_

And then 314 did something he didn't think her capable of: she ran.

* * *

Number 314 slammed her hand onto the door controls and rushed out into the examination room, taking the two stormtroopers standing beside the door by surprise. There was no thought, only action, and she had to get away from _him._ _He touched me, held me…run…_She snatched a blaster from one of the stunned trooper's hands. It was heavy, but she managed to pull off a few shots before she dashed into the hall. _Did one of them fall? …run…they killed him…run…_Behind her, _he_ was yelling, and the thuds of stormtroopers' booted feet echoed off the walls. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She didn't know where she was going—she turned corners blindly. Alarms blared in the halls. …_run…_but her lungs would burst if she didn't stop. Still she pushed herself, her mind consumed with the effort of placing one foot before the other until finally she collapsed, and her mind blacked out.

It was dark. The alarms were still going off. 314 opened her eyes. Red lights throbbed in the darkness, casting a sinister glow on her surroundings. She was in a large room with a low ceiling almost completely filled by an oval table and chairs, stiff and unused. _How did I get here?_ 314 tried to lift herself up, but every muscle in her body felt shredded, and with a whimper of pain she lay back down. Her head brushed against something hard. Twisting her neck around, she saw the blaster. _Did I…?_ Ignoring the pain ripping across her screaming muscles, Number 314 forced herself into a sitting position. _If I did, they deserved it._ She clutched the blaster in her right hand. _They deserved it._ Her hand tightened on the blaster's grip—her skin glowed red in the lights that flicked on…and off. _Here I am…there I go._ Footsteps rang down the hall outside the conference room, stopping every so often at other doors, but they were getting closer. She dragged herself over to one of the chairs, and used it to pull herself onto her feet. She leaned on the hard metal back, breathing heavily. _They deserve it._ She aimed the blaster at the door. The footsteps stopped outside it. For a moment there was silence, and then the door hissed open.

She was firing before the door was completely open, before she realized it was her finger pulling the trigger. Three stormtroopers fell. The others raised their blasters.

And then she was running again, at them, through them, down the hall. And the red alarm lights throbbed on and off. _Here I am…there I go. _Blaster fire skimmed centimeters from her legs, scorching the metal floor. _Now you see me…now you don't._ Red. Black. Red.

Black. Fire tore through her side, through her leg, through her back. She crumpled to the floor. She felt the cold metal grow warm beneath her. There was blood on the floor—her blood from where her head had cracked against the durasteel. _I bleed and feel nothing._ A part of her remembered that the stormtroopers in the movies could never hit the heroes. Heroes weren't gunned down. Heroes triumphed. And a strange and terrifying thought flickered into her mind as she sank into darkness: _Perhaps I'm not the hero of my own story.

* * *

_

"I told you not to harm her!"

"Sir, you said…"

"I said 'find her.' I said 'use force _only if absolutely necessary_.'"

"I understand, sir, but…"

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!" Dr. Rave screamed at the squad leader who'd brought the girl back. The image of Number 314, her head lolling limply from side to side as the trooper carried her to the medical wing half-dead, still burned in his mind. He'd almost ordered the execution of the entire squad. _It would help slow the dwindling of the station's reserves. _"Get out of my sight," he hissed. The squad saluted and disappeared down the corridor.

With an angry sigh, Lucius entered the medical wing. A medical droid was immediately at his side, chatting off lists of 314's vital signs. He waved a hand to silence it. "Where is she?"

"Right this way, sir."

He followed the skeleton-like droid down a wide hallway that lead to a dead end. The droid halted in front of the last door on the left. His hand moved to the door controls.

"Excuse me, sir, but the girl's condition is unstable. She is…"

"I won't disturb her," he said caustically, and opened the door.

The windowless room felt claustrophobic, permeated by the sick smell of death. Several droids hummed around the small bed in the center of the room, preparing 314 for the bacta tank.

"Leave."

"But, sir…" One of the droids began, its mechanical voice registering alarm.

"Leave."

The medical droids hesitated a moment longer and then glided from the room. "We'll be just outside."

Lucius approached the bed. Number 314 lay partially clothed on white sheets, every bone showing prominently beneath her bruised skin. Her face looked troubled in her drugged sleep. A brown lock of hair had fallen across her hollow cheek. Leaning down, her gently brushed it away, his fingers lingering on her papery skin. He placed his lips near her ear. "I won't let you go," he breathed, "You're mine."

Dr. Rave straightened. _She'll regret running from me._ He turned on his heel and strode from the room, ignoring the anxious chatters and beeps of the droids as he brushed past them. _She will regret her weakness. _He didn't pay attention to where he was going. _She will regret it._ But while he fumed about 314, a tiny, secret part of him knew he would die for her.


	18. In the Dark

_**Author's Note: **I'm back after vacation, a new puppy, and one Harry Potter book. Thank you to all my reviewers for waiting so long._

In the Dark

_Now…_

"_You're mine."_

_He was at the foot of her bed. Staring._

"_You're mine."_

"_No."_

_Slowly, he began to pull the covers off of her. And she was naked._

"_You're mine."_

"_No."_

"_Mine."_

"No."

"_Mine."_

"NO!" Amara awoke shivering and cold, jolted awake by her own scream. With a groan, she turned her face into the pillow and searched clumsily for the sheets that had been pushed to the bottom of the bed during the night, but she knew she wouldn't fall asleep again no matter how exhausted she was. _Next time I'll read the fine print: Warning! Interrogation by sadistic doctor may interfere with healthy sleep patterns._ Still grumbling to herself, Amara slid out of bed and shuffled across the room to the windows where she traced the constellations she had created during other sleepless nights when the echoes of boots in sterile halls raked across her subconscious. Her fingertips glided across the transparasteel, following the outline of a crooked Orion, whose sword hung by his side, no longer aloft.

_Killed for love and hung in the sky. _The image of a stormtrooper, one of many, indistinguishable, rose from the shadows of her mind, but she flinched away from the memory—forcing her thoughts instead onto Sgt. Knight…_and his band of merry men._

Amara smiled in the darkness. Between "running into" them in the halls and "coincidental" meetings, she had managed to meet all of the dozen Knights—from Striker, a Coway who did little more than look superior, to Marcus who always denied that he was with her for any other reason than that she was "beguiling":

"_I simply enjoy your company, Spitfire."_

"_You're a liar and flirt, Marcus, don't insult my intelligence by pretending to be neither. You're following me," Amara said with mock-severity._

_Marcus flashed her an innocent grin, but there was a roguish twinkle in his eye as he promptly turned down another hallway without a backward glance._

"_Oooo…tricky, Marcus, tricky," she laughed at his retreating back. "And yes, I know you're there Striker," she threw over her shoulder to the tall shadow behind her and continued walking down the hall._

Of course, Jonathan was with her as often as he could be (or as often as he thought wise), and he had slowly begun to pull back the layers of her defense, sitting up late with her after the flippant light of day had faded and the world had once again become serious and cold. One lonely night, she had told him about the slave ship—about Amy. She didn't know why but the words had spilled from her mouth unasked for, filling up the dark silence, and he had listened without interrupting until her throat closed and the last word was no more than a strangled sigh:

"_It wasn't your fault," he said gently._

"_Hah." Amara turned away from him. Blaster shots rang in her ears._

_Jonathan grasped her forearm, ignoring the slight wince it evoked, and forced her to look at him. "Amy—the boy—their deaths weren't your fault."_

_She nodded half-heartedly and looked away. "I know."_

"_No, you don't."_

_Amara shook her head and blinked the tears from her eyes. Jonathan's hands twitched, but remained at his sides. She said nothing, and after a few moments, he left._

Her slim fingers paused over a cluster of stars she called "God's Peak." _He could have stayed—he could have…_She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool windowpane. _Why did I tell him about Amy? He didn't need to know—doesn't need to know about anything until… _Amara's stomach clenched. As the trial date neared, her nightmares got worse—and now today, the Knights were going to escort her to Coruscant. _I'll see him soon—see him... _She could almost see Dr. Rave reflected in the transparasteel—he loomed over her shoulder. _And he will look over and smirk and know…_

A soft tap on her door brought Amara back to the present. "Come in," she said, but her voice was hoarse, and whoever it was tapped again. "Come in," she repeated, louder, and turned around. The door slid open and a silver protocol droid stepped cautiously over the threshold.

"Pardon me for intruding, miss, but will you be having breakfast this morning?" it asked in a synthesized, feminine voice.

Amara blinked uncomprehendingly, the obsequious politeness of the droid failing to mesh with her thoughts of a moment before. A chill light—not at all like the rosy morning light of atmospheric sunrises, but harsh and crisp—had crept into the room. Belkadan's sun was rising. "No, thank you. I'm not very hungry." The droid moved to leave, but Amara raised her hand, a pleading gesture that made the 3PO unit pause, delighted it was needed.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Is…do you know if Sgt. Knight is awake?"

"Sgt. Knight has been awake since 0500 hours. He is on duty right now. Would you like me to call for him?"

Amara tried to ignore the queer ache in her chest. "No—that's all right." The droid nodded and left. Amara's eye's lingered on the closed door. The room felt emptier. And the sun drowned the stars.

* * *

The departure of the Corellian corvette CR90, _Seeker II_, was quiet and unremarkable—most of the base had no idea that they had played host to the key witness in the upcoming (and well publicized) war crimes trial, or that that girl was now watching the blue ball of Belkadan drift farther and farther away as she sat next to Sgt. Knight in a small conference room, gazing out the windows.

Marcus sat across from them. "Don't you ever get tired of looking at the stars?" he asked.

"No," Amara replied glibly without glancing at him. But then as an afterthought (and still refusing to look at the muscular young man) she added: "And I know how much you hate not being the center of attention."

Jonathan watched with some amusement as Marcus pretended to be deeply wounded by Amara's remark, but his excellent acting was lost on the little imp who still looked steadfastly out at the stars. But Jonathan thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. He leaned back in his chair, glad that Amara was allowing herself to relax on their trip to Coruscant—she wouldn't have many opportunities once they arrived.

The engines hummed, and Jonathan felt the pressure of the ship's increased velocity as the stars blurred, and _Seeker II_ rocketed into hyperspace.

"So…is this your first trip through hyperspace?" Marcus asked, again trying to strike up a conversation with the green-eyed girl, "And I'm not counting when you were unconscious, Spitfire."

Amara's face tightened, and Jonathan's mind immediately flashed back to what she had told him about her experience on the slaver's ship. _Don't push it, Marcus._ He glanced at his best friend who didn't seem to notice anything wrong. He held his breath, but the next second all the tension drained from Amara's face, and she replied with a warm if somewhat forced smile: "Well, than I guess this is my second trip, Marcus. Although the last time, while I was awake, I was in a cage."

Marcus was struck dumb by this tidbit about her life said in a such a sweet, conversational tone that you would think people went about in cages all the time. Jonathan smiled at his second's bemused expression and turned to meet Amara's eyes, where humor mingled with sadness in their olive depths. "I'm afraid our accommodations aren't quite up to your usual standards," he said softly.

She heaved a deep, suffering sigh, "Not at all, but I'll manage."

Looking down into her small, pale face, he noticed the deep worry line between her brows, saw the age and wear around her eyes, but he also saw the laugh lines around her mouth, her brave smile. _She'll be all right._ Amara blushed under his lingering gaze but didn't look away.

"Well, Spitfire," Marcus interrupted, startling Jonathan from his thoughts (Jonathan frowned at the knowing glint in Marcus's eye), "sounds like you have a story to tell me, but it will have to wait." Placing both hands on the smooth black table, he raised himself from his seat. "I'm going to go check on the rest of the squad," he said and strode to the door, but before he left on his self-assigned errand, he bowed low to Amara, solemnly intoning: "Until next time, milady."

Once Marcus was gone, Jonathan straightened in his chair, unsure whether he was annoyed more with Marcus or himself. He noticed that Amara also looked a bit flustered. "It seems you and him get along well. Marcus always did have a talent when it came to ladies," he said ruefully.

"I can imagine a trail of broken hearts follows in his wake," Amara replied, but her eyes were unfocused. She was somewhere else.

He suddenly wondered if there was someone on her planet that she loved—that was waiting anxiously for her return—and without considering the consequences, he asked, "Do you have any family?"

Amara started. She sat very still, and for a moment, he didn't think she would answer him, but then she looked down at where her hands were clenched in her lap and shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said and raised her face to his, "it's just…everything from then seems so removed—so impossibly out of reach, it's strange to hear…." Her mouth quirked upward, and she gave her head a small toss. "No, there's nothing at home except…home."

And for some reason, Jonathan was glad to hear it.

* * *

In a cramped, dark cell on Coruscant, Dr. Rave lay awake on his not uncomfortable bed, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. The past few weeks he had enjoyed playing the role of the oppressed scientist forced to perform horrible procedures on his fellow creatures under penalty of death ("I still hear their screams at night—horrors that will haunt me to my grave."), but now he was consumed by the knowledge that he would see her again, be near her, hear her voice.

He dreamed of her. And in the lonely hours of the night, when the press had gone or another sensational story eclipsed his, his mind replayed one memory over and over:

_She lay beaten and bleeding on the floor before him—every last defense and lifeline stripped from her soul. There was no one to comfort her, no one to care… but him. And she reached out. As he knelt beside her, her slim hand reached up and touched his cheek…so gently, like a feather. With a moan he cradled her in his arms, there on the durasteel floor, her body so frail he could have crushed her if he squeezed too hard. Her head fell onto his chest, and she sobbed into his shirt._

_He held her long after her sobs faded, listening to her heartbeat, and knowing she was his._


	19. Running from Shadows

_**Author's Note: **I finished and posted this chapter at 1:30 in the morning and I wasn't happy with the ending so I decided to change it. Just the last section has been updated._

Running From Shadows

"It was the classic 'recon' mission: get some info and knock off as many Imps as possible on the way…."

"Twelve versus Two-hundred—we actually felt sorry for the poor bastards…."

"…we turn the corner, and the look on that officer's face…remember, Jagger?"

"…and the sergeant here fired once and blam! —right through that fucking Imp's face…"

"Well, there's no point in wasting shots." Laughter.

"Entering Coruscant's atmosphere." The _Seeker II_'s captain's announcement rang hollowly down the halls of the ship. A hush fell over the room where Amara sat with the Knights. Next to her, Striker continued to absently take apart and reassemble his sniper rifle—the soft snicks the room's heartbeat. Across the room, Jonathan was watching her. The universe was real and serious again. There were no more war stories that always seemed much funnier than they actually were. In the lull, she caught the emptiness of their eyes and the grim lines around the men's mouths that had been obscured by laughter. They had not always laughed at those stories—those triumphs.

And Amara understood why she gravitated toward them. _They have seen death. They have raised their blaster, looked someone in the eye, and shot them._

The intercom crackled again: "Landing in approximately five minutes."

* * *

The courtroom of the newly created Galactic Criminal Court, apparently, had yet to be redecorated. The stark, gray space—functional to a fault—seemed to be the Empire's last stronghold, drawing in a final, struggling gasp: crisp, sharp, deadly. There were no windows, and the doors melted seamlessly into the walls. You were in prison before you were condemned, captured in a tiny box like a bug…and someone had forgotten to poke holes in the lid.

During the pretrial investigations, inquiries, and usual legal crap, the room had become Dr. Rave's second home, hollow, eerily quiet, but familiar. There were no photographers or journalists behind him in the rows of empty metal seats—their place was outside on the wide steps, living in the light of their flashbulbs and bright, artificial smiles like plants under a sunlamp. Behind a black lacquer table he sat with his lawyer, Mr. Carver Reynolds, a staunch supporter of the Empire who had somehow managed to slip through the cracks of justice. Beside them, behind an identical table, sat the Officer of Prosecution, his face grim as he scanned the datapad in front of him.

Dr. Rave allowed himself a little smile as he gazed up at the imposing, white judge's bench that towered over the room. _The seat of God. _Now, it was vacant. The three trial judges would not arrive for another ten minutes. _I do not fear God._ Behind the bench, the Imperial Seal was still visible, though obscured by paint and feeble attempts to sand it away.

_"Don't worry about impressing the pretrial judges—those three are Rebels to the core—they'll find enough evidence to hold a trial," Carver said, leaning across the table in the Counsel Room, "It's the trial judges you have to worry about."_

_Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Why worry? I'm innocent."_

_"Right." Carver pressed a finger to his right temple and continued: "If we're lucky, Sakkar and Pealen will be on the bench. They'll sympathize with us. And Ccal is such a bleeding heart we could potentially get him to feel sorry for you."_

_"I only need two out of three. And the prosecutions got a weak argument as far as I can see: one witness, one holovid. My word against hers." A brief flash of shining green eyes filled his mind._

_"Never hurts to be safe."_

_"Any way we can guarantee that 'safety.'"_

_"I have a few contacts in the GCC—I'll see if I can't sway that random placement of the judges in our favor."_

And sway Carver Reynolds had. Sakkar and Pealen were trial judges. Lucius leaned back in his chair. _Long live justice._

Next to him, Mr. Reynolds did not look as confident. "Remember, I would prefer you to keep the smirking to a minimum, Lucius. I doubt even Pealen would appreciate a smart ass."

Lucius immediately rearranged his features into a look of utter remorse and endless sorrow. Tears glittered at the corners of his insipid blue eyes. "Better?"

But Carver didn't get a chance to answer because the doors at the back of the room slid open, and a small procession entered the courtroom. Lucius turned to see the new arrivals.

_There she is._ Flanked by four Republic guards (who seemed a bit superfluous considering she was also surrounded by her twelve rescuers—all thankfully disarmed) was Number 314. She looked healthy—more alive than he remembered her in a simple sage dress that fell just below her knees—her long, black-brown hair was clean and pulled up in twist behind her head. A few curls framed her pale face, but her eyes had a fixed, empty stare. She did not look at him. Standing closely by her side, was a tall, eagle-eyed young man Dr. Rave vaguely remembered from the attack on IARF. He gripped 314's hand in a way that made Lucius' heart pang with…jealousy?

Silently (_like a damn funeral procession_), the group filed into the row of seats directly behind the prosecution. And he watched her. Watched as she sank onto her straight-backed chair. Watched the way her shoulders trembled as if a breeze had brushed the back of her slender neck. Watched the blue-eyed devil tenderly encircle one of her thin hands with both of his—saw her smile gratefully up into his face.

"Lucius." Carver tapped him on the shoulder. "It's starting."

Lucius forced himself to face the judges' bench. He could feel her there—just out of eyesight. _I will get out. I will be freed, and then…._

A door opened behind the bench, and an officer of the court, dressed in midnight blue with a red stripe around his left arm, solemnly entered. "All rise." Lucius stood. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Number 314 stand as well. "The Galactic Criminal Court is now in session."

Two elderly males and one female filed in all dressed in pure white. Only one was human. "The honorable judges Philean Sakkar, Richard Pealen, and Trill Kre'fey presiding," the court officer finished as the judges took their seats. Sakkar, a Twilek with a heavily ornamented headtail, sat in the center. The human, Pealen, sat on his right and had the look of a shriveled, bleached mummy. Trill Kre'fey, a Bothan with chestnut fur flecked with silver and the only woman, took the seat on Sakkar's left. "You may be seated."

Judge Sakkar turned his beady black eyes on Lucius and stated in a detached, faraway voice, "Dr. Lucius Rave, you are charged with crimes against humanity, with depraved, heinous acts against the sentient creatures of this galaxy. How do you plead?"

Determined, Dr. Rave stood, looked each judge square in the eye, and replied, "Not guilty."

* * *

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Amara…"

"I'm _fine_."

"Amara, look at me," Jonathan ordered, hooking a finger beneath her chin and tipping her face up so that she couldn't hide her eyes. "You're anything but fine."

She sighed and jerked her head from his grasp. "I'm—dealing with it, okay? Now, I would like to be left alone if you don't mind, sergeant."

Jonathan's mouth thinned, and Amara felt a twinge of regret for her sharpness. "As you wish," he said and moved to leave, but she reached out and caught his arm, giving the muscle a gentle squeeze.

"_Alone_ alone, Jonathan," she said, allowing affection to seep into her voice. A corner of his mouth quirked, and she smiled warmly in return.

His hand came up a brushed her cheek, sending a tiny trill down her spine. "Just don't wander too far." And then he was gone, leaving Amara alone in the middle her hotel room imagining what would have happened if Jonathan had leaned down and kissed her.

She felt eyes on the back of her neck. Amara snapped out of her daydream. The room was quiet. She was alone. _He stared at me. Stared the whole time._ The morning came rushing back to her—Dr. Rave, the judges, the opening arguments—driving away the light tingle left by Jonathan's hand.

_Not guilty. Not guilty my ass. He stared. He looked sorry—SORRY!_ Amara punched her fist into the bland beige wall, ignoring the smart of her now-red knuckles. She could feel his eyes—the way he had devoured her when she entered the courtroom, the glances he snuck when no one was looking. His voice slid into her head: _You will never escape me, 314. You belong to me._ _And when I am released, I will come claim you. _The room seemed to constrict. She couldn't breath. _I have to get out._

She ripped the hateful dress over her head and pulled the closest thing to jeans and a T-Shirt out of the dresser. Her hand brushed something cold and metal. Her hand closed around the blaster—a horribly familiar feeling—and she gingerly drew it from its hiding place beneath some hastily bought shirts. She fingered the trigger. Jonathan had given her the blaster right before they stepped off the _Seeker II_. "I want you to keep this on you wherever you go," he'd said, "Coruscant isn't always the friendliest of places." She hadn't wanted it, but he'd forced her to take it. Made her promise to have it with her whenever she went anywhere alone. She set the blaster on top of the dresser, and changed into the clothes she'd yanked from the drawer, wrapping the blaster's holster around her right thigh. But still she left the gun where it was.

_I don't want it._ With quick steps, she strode to the door, turned the handle…and looked back. The blaster lay where she left it, cold and deadly. _I promised._ Still, she hesitated. _Don't be stupid—you don't know where you're going—just take the damn gun._ Her mouth set, Amara retrieved the blaster and (carefully) shoved it into the holster before bolting from the room.

* * *

An enormous slug had fallen at her feet (_And when you look up, they drop on you._), and for a moment, Amara feared that her shriek would attract more of the loathsome creatures that would of course be carnivorous. But after gathering enough courage to poke the one in front her with her boot, she decided that it was just a normal, disgusting, harmless slug. Stepping over it, she continued her exploration of Coruscant's lower levels: the abandoned and rotting homes and stores that formed the base of the city. _Next time, I'll go up._ She would have turned right around and gone back up the elevator that had clunked its way down, but she was not entirely sure that turning around would help. She was lost.

_At least I'm not worrying about the trial anymore._ Amara was beginning to realize that whenever she ran away from Dr. Rave in a blind fit of emotion, she ended up in a far worse situation. _Bastard._

She jumped lightly over a piece of twisted durasteel, continuing down the remains of an elevated walkway. Her footsteps echoed strangely off the rusted metal beneath her feet. She looked up—catching a glimpse of darkening blue sky between the buildings overhead. It seemed miles and miles away. Night was falling. _I wonder if they could hear me if a shouted._

Movement. She glimpsed something out of the corner of her eye. Amara's pace did not falter, but the hairs on her arms rose as she turned a corner, trying to find a place that wasn't so dark, someplace where there were…_there are no people down here—everywhere is a dark alley._ She was being followed. Her hand strayed to her blaster. Already what little light remained was fading.

Amara imagined the footsteps behind her quickening, and side stepped into a narrow passageway, moving swiftly down it into the blackest shadow and drawing her blaster as she did so. She couldn't see, but whoever it was was there—behind her.

She swiveled, pulled the trigger, and the red bolt briefly illuminated the T-shaped visor in front of her before she was slammed back into the wall with an arm crushing her throat and a blaster muzzle pressed to her temple. For endless seconds, her attacker said nothing. Stars began to flicker before her eyes. Then…

"You." The voice was emotionless, far from apologetic, but at least the pressure was removed from her throat, and the blaster was removed from her head (though not lowered).

"Amara." She coughed and rubbed her throat. She didn't holster her blaster either. "How…?"

The helmet nodded absently. "Holonet."

Amara shifted from foot to foot. The man was a mere step away—she was trapped. Unconsciously, she raised the blaster gripped tightly in her hand a fraction of an inch higher.

"Don't try it."

_Then back off._ Her fear was quickly dissolving into irritation at Mysterious Masked Man's glibness. _I'm done with cages. _"Who are you?" she asked, a knife blade from open hostility.

He looked taken aback, even lowered his blaster, but replied in his usual toneless voice: "Boba Fett."

_Boba Fett…sounds familiar. _Fuzzy memories from the movies surfaced at the back of her mind—she remembered him now. _Didn't he get eaten?_ "And do you make a habit, Mr. Fett, of stalking young women and slamming them into walls?" she asked dryly.

"If I'm being paid."

Amara choked on a giggle and began coughing again. _Boba Fett, male prostitute._ When she could breath again, she asked, "Are you…?"

"We wouldn't be having this conversation if you were my merchandise," he interrupted, "I…mistook you for someone else."

_Conversation? Merchandise?_ Amara pitied the woman he _was_ shopping for. "Who?"

"That is not your concern," Fett replied tersely. They relapsed into uncomfortable silence. It was very dark now, and Amara had to strain to see the bounty hunter before her. She studied the scarred armor (_Spartanesque)_ and the thingy sticking out of his back. Her eyes finally came to rest on the T-shaped visor. The helmet didn't hide everything—he seemed to be debating whether to leave her or stay. Curiosity (if it could be called that) apparently won out. "Tell me, what is the star witness in the GCC's newest trial doing alone and unprotected in the city's lower levels?"

'That is not your concern' immediately sprang to mind, but she was impressed that he had bothered to string more than five words together, so instead she replied: "I needed to get away from…everything." _From him. From myself._

Fett inclined his head as if he had known what she would say and understood. "Does anyone know you're down here?"

For a split second, Amara considered lying, but she had a feeling Fett already knew the truth. "No."

"Smart."

_You can leave anytime, bucko. _But when he actually did move to leave, Amara took back her mental remark. It was dark. She was lost. She opened her mouth to speak, but Fett cut her off:

"Follow me."

Boba Fett was fast and silent—Amara had to trot to keep up with him. They wound there way through the maze of passages and buildings until her sense of direction was completely shot, but Fett was careful to keep her close.

"Does anyone live down here?" she whispered as they crossed what had once been a large room—a ballroom perhaps. He seemed to be trying to avoid something.

"Nothing you want to run into." Amara imagined she could see glittering eyes behind her and quickened her pace.

After a small eternity, Fett muttered, "Almost there." They ducked under an enormous fallen beam and came out into a clear space illuminated by a failing lamp. The telltale doors of an elevator flickered in the dim yellow light. Amara let out a sigh of relief and passed Fett to push the up-arrow button with relish. After a few rusty clanks, the elevator hummed to life. The car was coming down for her.

Amara turned to her savior with a grateful smile. "Thank you."

He shrugged. "I assume you can find your way from here?"

"I'll manage." The doors behind her opened with a cheery ping. She stepped eagerly into the elevator, but held the doors open and looked back at where the bounty hunter was still standing, hands clasped in front of him.

"Learn something?"

"Yes."

"Then one last piece of advice," Fett said, "Don't ever point a blaster at me again if you value your life."

Amara released the doors and watched them slide slowly closed. "Who said I did?"

* * *

Jonathan was sitting stiffly in an overstuffed armchair when she opened the door to her hotel room half an hour later. "Where have you been?" Amara flinched at the distance in his voice.

"I went for a walk."

"A seven hour walk?"

"I got lost." He didn't reply but turned accusing blue eyes on her. She took a tentative step forward. "I should have told you I know but…"

"But what?" Eyes flashing, he stood and closed the distance between them. "You can't just disappear for a few hours," he hissed, grasping her shoulders, "Do you have any idea what you're risking? Do you know what I…" Jonathan snapped his mouth shut and stepped back, letting his hands drop to his sides. His mouth thinned into a harsh line as he stared down at her. "You cannot disregard your…"

"My safety? My life?" Amara fought to keep her voice level—guilt was turning to anger, and exhausted as she was, Amara didn't stop to consider whom she was angry at. "Don't tell me how to live my life, Jonathan. Don't you dare try to…"

"Dammit, Amara," Jonathan cut her off, his voice raw, "I'm not trying to cage you, but if you don't get some things through that head of yours…"

"Exactly what 'things,' o-noble-protector?"

"You let Rave control you."

She almost slapped him—her hand was raised—but she let it drop to her side in a fist. Her head was pounding. _How…dare…you. _Her voice came from a hollow place in her soul, soft and harsh: "Get out."

But Jonathan gave no sign that he had even heard her furious whisper. "You let him in, Amara."

"Get out."

"You are selfish and blind..."

"Get _out._"

"…Clinging to a world that's…"

"My _home."_

"Open your eyes, Amara—see what's right in front of you…"

"Just shut up, Jonathan, you don't under—"

"There are people here who care about you, Amara…" He was yelling now.

"I didn't ask anyone to care," she shot back, "Get out _now_."

"…Who don't want you to kill yourself running away from a bastard who…"

"BUT I CAN'T STOP!" she screamed. Silence descended on the room. Amara concentrated on the wall over Jonathan's left shoulder—a paint-covered crack ran down it. She couldn't meet his eyes, but she could see him: a towering shape at the edge of her vision. _I can't stop. I don't want to stop and think and know…_

"You have to," he said, reading her fears as they flitted across her face.

_I stop and close my eyes and see him, them…How much longer? _Ever since she'd been rescued, she'd felt this moment building up inside of her—it was a cancer, a need to run and never stop. _I let Jonathan get too close—I shouldn't have…I can't…How much longer will I see him? Everything ends when I…_

"Amara, stop." She was shaking uncontrollably. She couldn't hear him. "Stop," Jonathan repeated and took a step forward, wrapping his arms around her slender body. Amara leaned her head and hands against his chest. The tension in her body ebbed away as he held her. "Stop."

_I lied. I'm nuts. _But in the circle of Jonathan's arms, everything was all right, and she silenced the part of her mind that was whimpering: _It's a trap—don't trust him, don't love him—he'll be gone._ Her panic attack subsided, and she was both grateful and a little ashamed that Jonathan was holding her up. She had lost control. And he had seen. "I'm sorry," she mumbled into his shirt.

He gave her a gentle squeeze, and she could feel Jonathan's smile as he briefly pressed his lips to her hair. "Just remember, I can always slip a tracking device under your skin."

Amara sniffed and smiled, realizing for the first time that she'd been crying. Jonathan rested his chin on the top of her head, still holding her close. She was happy standing there, hidden from the world, but the tightness in her chest was still there, waiting. _I'll run again. And, next time, will I stop?_


	20. Wrong

_**Author's Note: **Yay! A faster-than-usual update! I also changed the ending of the Chapter 19—I thought Jonathan and Amara made up too fast. Thank you for all your reviews. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as you can._

Wrong

If a thermal detonator had exploded on the doorstop of the Galactic Criminal Courthouse, a steep-sided pyramid near the remnants of the Jedi Temple, there couldn't have been more coverage or confusion before the massive black doors that opened like a mouth, swallowing both victims and criminals alike. Reporters from every species swarmed over the steps—they'd been there long before the sun rose on the city-planet—waiting for their prey to arrive, and their feverish reports of nothing were wearing thin. The sun had risen an hour ago behind the clouds and smog. The gray granite sky looked down on the chaos like a bored god. An unmarked airspeeder stopped before the steps leading up to the polished ebony spike that seemed to hold up the clouds. The world exploded.

"An _Arrow-23_ has just pulled up," A beautiful doe-eyed, violet-skinned Twilek spoke frantically to one of the hundred cameras (she wasn't completely sure which was hers), "Yes—the accused Dr. Rave has just arrived at the GCC." She elbowed her way forward, pressing herself against the line of New Republic Police attempting to clear a path to the courthouse. "Sir, do you have any concerns regarding Ms. Richards' testimony later today?"

A dozen other questions assaulted the pale doctor as he ascended the steps: "Is it true you attempted to protect Ms. Richards?" "Do you feel any resentment towards her for speaking out against you?" "You've already mentioned that you were held hostage by the Imperials—any more details you can give us?" "What happened to the holovid records of the facility?" "What might Ms. Richards say against you?"

A spasm of grief crossed Dr. Rave's face, and turning in the doorway to look back down at the hopeful reporters, he replied just loud enough for everyone to hear: "All I can do is hope that Ms. Richards can find it in her heart to forgive me for what I've done." His lawyer then ushered him inside, a strange twinkle in his eye.

The violet Twilek turned back to the camera, practiced concern infusing her voice: "That was Dr. Lucius Rave, and as you could see, he is obviously disturbed by what is going to prove to be a very trying, stressful day at the Galactic Court as _New Republic v. Rave_ heats up. Today, the prosecution's key witness, Ms. Amara Richards will testify before the high court—an event long awaited by the public." The Twilek narrowed her eyes. Her headtails twitched. "As you know, Ms. Richards was the only surviving prisoner found at the Imperial Alien Research Facility, and she remains somewhat of a mystery with no home planet, no family, and no background. Hopefully, questions about the reliability of her testimony and mental stability will be answered today. I'm Cy Lorluna, and I'll be following this story all day, keeping you up-to-date."

Another speeder parted the crowd. A frail-looking girl with dark circles under her wide green eyes stepped out, followed swiftly by an angular young sergeant in full dress uniform. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and began pushing through the mass of people the police could not hold back. The girl kept her head down, and each question the reporters threw at her seemed to strike her like a physical blow. "Did Dr. Rave try to protect you?" "How did you survive longer than any of the other prisoners—did anyone help you?" "Is there anything you'd like to say to Dr. Rave before you testify against him?" Some of the reporters were overenthusiastic and attempted to pry the girl from her escort, but one glare from the sergeant warned them to keep their distance. They entered the courthouse through a much more subdued crowd. But camera lights flashed behind them.

* * *

It was like being back in that cramped interrogation room on IARF. Only this time her interrogator was pretending to be polite and understanding. She sat facing the High Seat in an uncomfortable high-backed chair on a raised dais that had risen from the floor before the judges. Dr. Rave's gaze traveled up and down her spine while his attorney circled her. A balding man with a mouth like a razor slash across his face, Reynolds was a legend in the courtroom, his every movement calculated down to the slight twitch of his pinky finger. "As you've already said, in your opinion, my client treated you appallingly while you were in his care. Enlighten us then, Ms. Richards, how it is that you and you alone survived when all your fellow prisoners perished?"

_I wasn't lucky enough._ Amara didn't have to fake the disgust in her voice as she replied, glaring at the lawyer, "Rave was obsessed with me—he wouldn't let me die."

"Is it possible you mistook concern and compassion for obsession?"

"Objection," the Officer of Prosecution cut in, "Mr. Reynolds is…"

"Withdrawn, your honors," Mr. Reynolds said with an apologetic smile. He turned back to Amara, who was finding it hard to remain composed.

"_Compassion_," she sneered, "had nothing to do with Dr. Rave's actions. He enjoyed torturing me—_enjoyed…_"

Reynolds cut her off: "Objection, the witness is making assumptions about my client's feelings."

"Sustained," Justice Sakkar said, narrowing his eyes at Amara, "Ms. Richards, you will please refrain from expressing opinions and only answer the questions Mr. Reynolds asks you. Is that clear?"

Amara dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand. "Yes, sir."

The white-robed Twilek nodded to the defense attorney. "You may continue, Mr. Reynolds."

"So, Dr. Rave kept you alive. Are you aware, Ms. Richards, that the base was running out of food? He put your life before his own, your welfare before the health of the other Imperial officers. Were you aware of this, Ms. Richards?"

"No," Amara answered through clenched teeth.

Reynolds stopped his circling to look her square in the eye, leaning ever so slightly forward. "He saved your life, Ms. Richards."

Amara leaned forward as well, her hands gripping the arms of her chair, furious. "And what about the other prisoners he let rot in their cages? Where was his compassion then?"

The lawyer smiled at her before turning to the judges. "Objection, move to strike Ms. Richards' comments from the record."

"So stricken—the witness will refrain from asking questions. This is your final warning Ms. Richards." The three judges frowned down at her—but Amara thought she saw a flash of pity in the female Bothan's brown eyes.

"Yes, your honor."

"You say my client repeatedly and willingly tortured you," Reynolds continued, "and yet there is only one holovid, _one_, that shows my client having sex with you. And, as your honors will soon hear, he affirms that he was forced to perform that sexual act with Ms. Richards under penalty of death…"

"He was not forced."

"If you will wait for my question, Ms. Richards," he said, holding up a finger, a condescending smirk cracking his face. Amara snapped her mouth shut. "Thank you. As I was saying, there is little evidence that my client willingly mistreated Ms. Richards—her condition when she was rescued, while regrettable, cannot be directly linked to Dr. Rave who did everything in his power to protect her. As for the act portrayed in the holovid, my client was not the only person Ms. Richards had sexual relations with." Reynolds retrieved an important-looking datapad from the defense table. Amara's throat closed as he handed it to the judges—their expressions darkened as they read the information on the screen. "According to the records that survived the attack on the IARF, Ms. Richards had sex with no less than seven Imperial Officers and five scientists."

Time slowed. Amara couldn't blink, couldn't swallow—she couldn't breathe. _Oh God, Jonathan._ She didn't want him to hear this. _Stop. Stop it please._

Mr. Reynolds' voice lowered to an accusing whisper: "You did anything to survive, didn't you Ms. Richards?"

"Objection!" The prosecution's voice floated to her from far away. Her entire being was focused on the horrible, sneering man before her.

"Withdrawn. Did you have sex with those men, Ms. Richards?" Amara's mouth opened, but no sound came out. "Answer the question."

"Y-yes, but…" Her ears were ringing. Reynolds was speaking again, but she couldn't hear him. Amara watched his mouth move and wondered whether or not she should laugh. It was all so ridiculous. She glanced up at the judges—surely they must see how laughable the argument was—but their faces were inscrutable.

"…How often did you meet with my client?"

She blinked. No one was laughing. "Everyday." _How did we reach this point?_

"And were stormtroopers or another officer always present?"

"Yes, but most of the time…"

"So it's very possible that my client was being forced to harm you?"

"No."

"No?"

"The troopers were there to make sure I didn't run away."

A Cheshire cat grin spread across Reynolds' face, but he was solemn when he glanced over his shoulder at the judges. "To make sure you didn't run away. Were they also there to ensure that you didn't hurt my client? The medical records indicate that you attacked my client on several separate occasions."

"In self defense."

"'Self defense.' Is bashing someone over the head with a chair, self defense?"

"I was…"

"…Trying to run away," Carver Reynolds finished for her, "and you did eventually succeed in escaping for several hours, killing three soldiers and injuring twelve others in the process I might add." Amara paled. "And, when you were finally gunned down, my client defended you—made sure you got the finest medical care the facility could offer—and reprimanded the entire squadron that caught you for using unnecessary force.

"My client went above and beyond to save you. The base was dying—he couldn't save everyone, but he saved you. He did all he could. If the Empire had discovered what he was doing before it was destroyed, do you know what they would have done?

_Commended him for exemplary service?_

"They would have executed him on the spot. Does that sound like a monster to you? A man who risked everything to save the life of another? Does it?" Amara was too enthralled by the smooth movement of his voice from understanding to disgust to patronizing that she could only stare in disbelief from him to the High Seat and back. Reynolds' black eyes glittered as he straightened. "No further questions, your honors," he said with a little bow before returning to his seat.

"You may step down, Ms. Richards," Judge Trill Kre'fey gently prodded. Amara stood and had to force herself not to run to Jonathan who stood and gave her hand a gentle squeeze as they both sat down. He didn't say anything, but Amara could tell he wished he had his blaster. She looked over at the defense table—she was sure Rave had been watching her a moment before. With a shiver, she turned to the judges. The Bothan's fur rose slightly around her neck whenever her eyes fell on Rave and Reynolds—_at least someone's on my side._ The Chief Justice, Sakkar, also looked less than sympathetic towards the accused, but he didn't feel very sorry for her either. Pealen, looking like an Egyptian priest in his robes (_after he'd been buried for four hundred years_), shot disapproving glances her way. _What crawled up your butt and died?_

"We will now have a fifteen minute recess," Judge Pealen said (and his voice was so solemn and yet high-pitched that it did in fact seem that something very grave had happened in his anus), "before Dr. Rave's testimony."

* * *

_Marcus would have strangled someone by now,_ Jonathan thought, debating whether or not it had been a good idea to tell Marcus not to come to the courthouse that day. Beside him, Amara sat rigidly, her face as blank as a statue's. He doubted she could hear a word of the doctor's answers. Jonathan's gaze lanced back to where Rave sat in the stiff black chair, sorrow and regret written in every line of his body. _Marcus would have strangled someone by now._

Like a pro, Rave had twisted every accusation the prosecution had thrown at him, making himself out to be the misunderstood victim of the entire situation. And now, he was answering his lawyer's questions with tears in his eyes. Jonathan could only hope that the judges saw through the act.

"Why did you let the prisoners starve in their cells, Dr. Rave?"

"There was nothing else I could do—the troops' rations were cut back as it was. There was no way to call for help, and if I had given the prisoners more food, I would have had a mutiny on my hands."

"But you gave Ms. Richards extra food, did you not?"

Tenderness crept into the doctor's voice: "She was in the worst shape of all the captives after what the troopers did to her day after day—I couldn't stand to see her suffer any more."

"Do you regret what you were forced to do?"

"Not a day goes by that I do not wonder whether it would have been better just to die than perform those operations, those disgusting experiments. But I couldn't have helped them at all if I'd been dead—I wouldn't have been there to ease their suffering. They would have been at the mercy an emotionless droid devoid of any human compassion."

But not all of it was an act. Not all of it.

After forty minutes of questions, Reynolds' voice lowered to a whisper: "Is there anything you'd do differently—anything you would change if you could go back in time to those years aboard IARF?"

A pregnant pause filled the courtroom in which Dr. Rave drew in a shuddering breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and earnest: "If I had known the pain my actions caused…if I could remove the hatred Ms. Richards feels towards me…." Rave turned around; his eyes locked with Amara's and for once real emotion shown from their icy depths—an invisible electric cord crackled between him and Amara who seemed to wake from the dream she'd lost herself in. "Amara…"

"The accused will please address himself to the High Court," Sakkar snapped. The spell was broken.

Dr. Rave again faced forward and cleared his throat. "If I could alleviate an ounce of suffering that the prisoners, all the prisoners, endured…I would." His penitent tone was forced.

Jonathan's throat was dry—he didn't believe, he couldn't believe, what he'd seen in the sick bastard's eyes. _It wasn't real. It's wrong._ He reached for Amara's hand, but she jerked it from his grasp. She was shaking and her eyes were unfocused, but her mouth was set in a grim line. She was looking inside herself, and Jonathan wondered what she saw. _It's wrong._


	21. Ask the Shadow for Light

_**Author's Note:** "What I give form to in daylight is only one percent of what I have seen in darkness" M.C. Escher_

"_There are two kinds of light—the glow that illuminates, and the glare that obscures." __James Thurber_

Ask the Shadow for Light

Philean Sakkar leaned back in his chair, setting the datapad on the massive wooden desk in front of him, and rubbed his eyes.

_"Most of the other captives were dead when I arrived…the ones that were alive weren't alive for long."_

_"How did they die?"_

_"Some of them died during Rave's 'experiments.'"_

_"Did you ever see the results of what he did to them?"_

_"Occasionally one would be dragged passed my cell. I remember—there was a Twilek girl with lacerations all up and down her body placed in a cell near mine. She was taken to the operation room six times before she died—each time she came back with parts of her headtails missing."_

_"And the others…?"_

_"Starvation. After a while they didn't even bother removing the bodies…"_

The light tap of nails on his office door broke his reverie. He straightened, reflexively smoothing the simple blue robes he always wore after a hard day in court. The door opened, and Trill Kre'fey swept into the room still wearing her ceremonial white, her silver-flecked fur rippling with displeasure. "Been talking with Pealen?" he asked, gesturing towards the seat across from him.

The Bothan's lip curled as she sank into the brown leather chair. "How that man was ever allowed to continue serving on the bench is beyond me—he's set on letting that sick…"

"Pealen's mind was made up before the trial started. There's little you can do about it," Philean interjected calmly.

"There's plenty I can do," Trill said, a slightly evil grin spreading across her face.

The Twilek sighed, resisting the urge to massage his lekku. "Whatever political assassination you're planning will have to wait until after this trial, Trill. Then, by all means, wreak justice upon the old and immovable."

"Age is no excuse."

"No. It is not. But perhaps we should learn to be lenient with those who have lived so long believing one doctrine that they have nothing else. Pealen is on the edge of senility. He won't be with us much longer."

"So that somehow gives him permission to deny justice?" she hissed.

"History is written by the winners, Trill. Right and wrong are relative terms. You would do well to remember that."

"Still he…"

Philean raised a hand to silence her furious retort. "But I agree he is no longer capable of serving on the bench. All I ask is that you allow him to step down quietly and disappear into the shadows. There is no point destroying him so late in his life, and your sense of justice would be lost on him anyway. Let him be."

The subject was closed, but the younger woman squirmed to say more, almost pouting. Philean picked up the datapad from his desk and scanned the testimonies of Ms.Richards and Dr. Rave for the hundredth time. Trill opened her mouth to speak. "I reserve judgment until the end," he said, cutting her off, "Only when every argument has been made, every witness testified, all evidence examined, do I make my decision."

The Bothan smiled—she'd heard it all before. "But you must be leaning one way or another?"

She was really starting to get on his nerves. "I keep my own counsel."

"You don't honestly believe that that…_doctor_," she spat the word out, "is innocent?"

Philean set down the datapad and placed his arms on the desk, lacing his fingers below his black eyes. He leaned forward. "No. I am quite certain he is guilty."

Trill's face softened. "Then why…"

"But I don't believe the prosecution has _proved_ he is beyond a reasonable doubt."

"How can you say that after Ms. Richards testimony today?" Trill's brown eyes were blazing.

"Trill, listen to me. This case boils down to he said, she said—and both parties involved are lying."

"That girl was not lying," she spat.

"Not outright, no—but she wasn't telling the whole truth either." Again the Bothan opened her mouth, and again he cut her off. "As I said, I'm reserving judgment."

"So lying and not telling the whole truth are equal?"

"You are assuming that Dr. Rave is lying. As impartial judges, no matter what we feel, we must assume that everyone is telling the truth unless it is proved otherwise. The Officer of Prosecution has not convinced me that my suspicions are any more than that: suspicions fueled by moral outrage and a need to blame someone. I don't want to believe that Dr. Rave is innocent, but for now I must."

Trill's fur bristled. "Don't treat me like some rookie law student, Philean. I know my job. And as far as your 'moral outrage' goes, I'm less than impressed. We've been friends a long time, but…"

"But what? Going to drag my name through the dirt? A little routine backstabbing?" he asked, his bored voice concealing the pain her accusations caused him.

"Dammit, Philean! There were ten Bothans at that facility…and sixty-seven Twileks! They were your people he tortured to death—and you just sit there on you high horse talking about justice. Are you so cold as to…?"

"Don't finish that sentence, Trill," he said, his voice deadly. "Don't you dare say I don't care when you know I do." He snatched the datapad from his desk and stared at it unseeingly. "I think you'd better leave, Trill," he said without looking up, "It's getting late."

The Bothan judge stood up slowly, crossed to the door, and opened it. Above the datapad, he could see her looking back at him. "I know you care, Philean. I'm sorry," she said and left. He gazed at the spot she'd been standing—the datapad forgotten in his hands.

_"I would lay awake at night, and I would hear them dying."_

There was no point going home. Philean knew he wouldn't get any sleep that night—all he could hope for now was a little peace before the sun rose on another day. But another knock on his office door destroyed any hope of that. "Come in," he sighed. A toad-like man peaked around the door before scurrying into the room. The Twilek stiffened. "What do you want, Muller?"

The man had an irritating twitch over his left eye—it was beating frantically now. "Mr. Reynolds just wanted assurance of your position, your honor. His offer still stands firm and…"

Philean leapt to his feet, rage burning in his eyes. "Get out."

"But sir!" The diminutive Muller shrunk backward.

"Get _out_!" Muller didn't need to be told twice—he was already out the door. Philean collapsed back into his chair and cradled his head in his hands. _Law is not justice. "…and I would hear them dying."

* * *

_

"I didn't think you'd agree to see me."

"I didn't think you had the nerve to come." Lucius glared at the sergeant sitting stiffly across the bare metal table from him, his mouth curled in a sneer. "Did _she_ send you?" He couldn't keep the hopeful note from his voice.

Sgt. Knight's face remained impassive. "No. I want some answers."

"Oh I see—this interview is simply to satisfy your own little need to meddle," he prodded, raising his eyebrows, "Does she even know you're here?"

The sergeant's expression didn't waver; his blue-black eyes remained fixed on the doctor's pale ones. "I will ask the questions, Rave."

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Then by all means ask away. Although, I don't know what help I'll be seeing as Ms. Richards has already told you…." He broke off, seeing the slight flicker in the younger man's face—a flash and it was gone. Lucius' smile widened. "So she hasn't told you everything about her terrible ordeal? How strange—you seemed so close at the trial." There was bitter taste in his mouth at the memory of them holding hands. _At least I know he's not with her tonight._

"She refuses to speak about what happened between you two."

A humorless laugh escaped his throat. "And you think I will?" The sergeant looked taken aback. Lucius leaned forward, hatred written in every line of his face. "Thought I was the bragging type, did you? I wouldn't tell you anything to save my life." _That's a piece of her you'll never have, pretty boy._

Sgt. Knight gave him a curt nod and stood to go, but Lucius couldn't resist one last jab at his retreating back. "I wonder how she would feel if she knew you went behind her back. Your faith in her is astounding…" The sergeant turned so fast, Lucius thought for a moment he had a gun—that it was then end. But the young man's hands were empty. The two men glared at each other, matching hatred with hatred.

"Do you love her?" Sgt. Knight whispered, breaking the standoff. Lucius recognized the pain, the disbelief in his voice, but only smirked in reply. The door slammed shut, and Lucius listened to the sergeant's steps recede down the hall.


	22. Justice Be Done

_**Author's Note:** Another chapter and the end of this story draws near. It won't be long now._

Justice Be Done

_The darkness—that's all there was—the great, swallowing darkness that crawled down your throat and suffocated you. But she kept breathing. A flame in the dark—she was not alone. They circled her: the three men without faces or names. They breathed without mouths, saw without eyes, heard without ears…heard her heart beating._

_"I hope and hoping feeds my pain." Their voices rose from the grave and fell from the sky and came out her open mouth. "I weep and weeping feeds my failing heart." They stepped closer, the three faceless men. "I laugh but the laughter does not pass within." Their hands reached out, fingers aflame, ringing her in fire. "I burn but the burning makes no mark outside."_

_Closer—the fire brushed her arms like barbed wire—closer. There was no escape, but she was free. A shadow—a light enfolded her, and the men without names burned away, disappearing in a cloud of ash and flame. The light and the shadow held her, and she was safe, but she could not see the face of her savior though she knew him. The man's grip became strangling. It was not Jonathan. And it was. It was not Dr. Rave. And it was._

_The three hovered just beyond her vision, waiting. The shadow and the light protected her but killed her as well. The blood rushing in her ears was singing:_

"_Is the light that casts shadow evil?_

_Is the shadow that casts light good?_

_Where is virtue broken?_

_Where are the damned understood?"_

_The light loosened and fell away, but burned all the brighter—like a sun over her shoulder. The shadow held fast, holding like a noose and a cage and an iron bar._

_Amara ripped herself from him, tripping back into darkness and the sun. The three were there, speaking: "Where is justice if not in a gun? In that moment when you decide another's fate? Can you end it—the horrible, terrible blasphemy? Pick up your gun. Shoot."_

_And Amara held a blaster in her hand. Dr. Rave stood before her, but she could not fire._

"I could kill him," Amara whispered to the empty room, as she lay awake; the dream hanging in the air above her like the ghost of a scream. Pale morning light, sifted through a web of metal and glass, crept across her bed. The slatted blinds created skeletons of dawn on her floor. Amara rolled out of bed and began to get ready for the day, mechanically going through the motions of dressing. Outside her window, Coruscant had never gone to sleep—the rising sun barely acknowledged. The world didn't know today was different. The change would be little more than a blip in their lives; a flip of the channel and it was gone. _He will die today or he will live. What then?_ A blank rose in her mind. _What happens next?_

There was a knock on her door, and Amara hurried out to meet Jonathan in the hall.

* * *

Jonathan was silent the entire ride to the courthouse. His greeting outside her room had been cold and formal, but Amara could see the tension in his body and didn't take it personally. The quiet allowed her time to sort through her thoughts and prepare for another day in court—she didn't think about the impending decision. But as they took their usual seats behind the prosecution's table and Jonathan continued to be distant and forbidding, Amara felt a twinge of annoyance and worry.

The courtroom was empty—they'd been the first to arrive—and she reached up and brushed her fingers against his clean-shaven cheek, the movement so natural she barely realized she was going to do it. Jonathan started and looked down at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. Amara didn't remove her hand. "Jonathan, what's wrong?" she said softly, searching his eyes for answers.

The doors slid open, and Dr. Rave entered, gripped on either side by New Republic guards. He stopped dead when he saw them: Amara's hand pressed lovingly against Jonathan's face as he gazed down at her, enraptured. As if they felt his angry glare, both turned and saw him. Amara's hand fell into her lap—her dream welled up inside her. _I could kill him._ Jonathan's expression was closed. The guards forced Rave forward and into his seat, but he never removed his eyes from the couple. Rave was followed closely by his lawyer; who passed down the isle without looking left or right, lost in his own thoughts. He sat beside his client but did not speak to Rave except to tell him to face forward. The Officer of Prosecution came in mumbling under his breath and continued to recite his final argument until the court officer solemnly commanded, "All rise." The judges took their places on the High Seat, as unreadable as ever. And then the circus started.

Amara had always liked _Chicago_ and about halfway through Mr. Reynolds' closing she wanted to burst out singing "Razzle Dazzle" (Instead she contented herself with humming the song under her breath. Jonathan raised an eyebrow at her.), but now she was beginning to see Billy Flynn in a less-than-favorable light.

"…My client, in direct of the Empire that enslaved him, eased the suffering of his patients and even saved the life the prosecution's key witness who dares to testify against him—the man who risked everything for her…" _Now would be the time to discover that I have latent Force abilities so I can strangle him. _"…Now, I understand that the emotional and physical trauma Ms. Richards experienced was extensive and obviously made her confuse my client's intentions, but we, as upholders of justice, cannot allow her distorted view of Dr. Rave to cloud our vision as well. In her current mental state, her testimony is barely legal, hardly credible…" _Then again, I could just bash him with a chair "using the power of my mind."_ Beside her, Jonathan seemed to be thinking something along the same line.

And so it went for almost two hours. Mr. Reynolds expounded upon Dr. Rave's selflessness, his virtue, and called Amara every kind of crazy until she really considered chopping off his head and shoving it up his butt. _And then I will happily see a shrink._ When he finally sat down, all the judges looked numb (except for Pealen, who nodded his head approvingly).

Then the Officer of Prosecution stood and approached the bench. He was a thin, forgettable man with shoulder length, honey-colored hair tied at the nape of his neck. His voice was his one virtue; soft and fervent, it commanded attention. Moments after meeting him, people could not remember his name, but they remembered his voice.

"Sometimes the duty of the law is to speak for those whose voices have been silenced, for those who cannot stand and point out their torturer, their murderer. Lucius Rave's actions did not destroy only one girl but ended hundreds upon hundreds of lives with a callous disregard that has only been attributed to those in highest echelons of the Empire. The New Republic troops that invaded the Imperial Alien Research Facility for bodies piled on top of each other, rotting in their cells. The _lucky_ ones starved to death. The others were dismembered, tortured, pushed to the brink of madness before they died—not the work of stormtroopers, who would have simply shot or beaten their victims to death, no, the murder of those prisoners was carried out with the precision of a doctor: Dr. Rave. The medical staff that examined the corpses affirmed that the condition of the bodies confirms disgusting experiments the like of which we have not seen since Murthe. From the few reports found aboard the facility, we know that Lucius Rave was the head medical examiner, highly decorated for his service and loyalty to the ideals of the Empire. If, as the defense claims, it was all an act, then it was an extraordinarily good one. Rave had the ability and the motive to perform the experiments, and he did. He was no innocent victim, caught between fear for his life and morality. He didn't hesitate to let the prisoners in his care to die slowly over hours and days—all for the sake of science. We know all this from the medical examiners. This man, sitting before you, had no qualms slicing holes in the lungs of a Wookie, chopping off pieces of a Twilek's lekku, and no qualms raping the girl the defense claims he saved. And if, in this one instance, he did show mercy to a girl _he was obsessed with_. He did so not out of kindness or pity, but because he had to satisfy his sick need. And one act of depraved kindness cannot atone for a lifetime of cruelty. Look at this man, your honors; there is no remorse in his eyes. He deserves no pity, no mercy for he never showed any himself. What he deserves is to be tortured as his victims were, tortured until death is more desired than life. But the law does not allow what he deserves. All I can ask is that you hold him accountable for what he has done and bring down the full weight of justice upon him. He deserves nothing less." Drawing a weary breath, the Officer of Prosecution bowed to the judges and returned to his seat, pale and drained.

Amara stared, stunned, at the Officer's slumped shoulders. He had never impressed her until now. He didn't press hard enough during questioning, he was reserved, unorganized. Before today his argument had consisted of a hundred loose threads that he'd never woven together—she only hoped his closing wasn't too little too late.

Slowly, Chief Justice Sakkar stood. "We have heard each side. Now, the judges will deliberate and return when we have reached a decision." And so saying, he left without a backward glance followed by the other judges.

An awkward silence descended on the room. The Officer of Prosecution left, mumbling something about a glass of water. Dr. Rave and Mr. Reynolds conferred quietly together, their head bent. The enormity of the situation struck Amara like a blow to the stomach, her chest tightened and fluttered with nervous butterflies. _This is the end._

"Do you want to go for a walk?" Jonathan asked, turning toward Amara who had begun to fidget with the hem of her skirt.

"Yes," she practically gasped.

With a small smile, he took her hand, and they both stood. As they walked down the aisle towards the doors, Amara could feel the doctor's eyes on her back, scorching the skin of her neck. She was glad when the courtroom doors hissed shut behind her. "You looked like you needed to get out of there," Jonathan said, guiding her around a corner and into the enormous five-story lobby.

"Really? What tipped you off?"

"Well there was that half-mad look that crossed your face—and what with Mr. Reynolds' very convincing speech about your volatile mental health—I decided to save the general public from your explosive craziness," he replied with a grin.

Amara punched him in the arm. Hard. But he laughed, and they continued their walk, staying inside the GCC so as to avoid the press. They didn't talk—they didn't need too. And basking in the comfortable silence, Amara was almost able to forget that somewhere in the building three judges were deciding her fate. She leaned her head on Jonathan's shoulder. Everything was all right…and then it wasn't. A guard approached them.

"Sir," he said, saluting Jonathan, "the judges have reached their decision."

* * *

The judges filed in: Pealen, Kre'fey, Sakkar. They sat and looked at everything and nothing. Time stretched. The Chief Justice looked down at Dr. Rave, his face as empty as a corpse's. He looked very, very old and tired. "The defendant will rise," he said solemnly. "By a two to one vote, we of the Galactic Criminal Court find the defendant, Dr. Lucius Rave, not guilty."

* * *

"I hope and hoping…the burning makes no mark outside." Niccolo Machiavelli "Machiavelli's Poem" 


	23. Love and Obsession

_**Author's Note:** I have wanted to write this chapter for a while! And this is probably the chapter a lot of you have been waiting for. There's only one more chapter after this, and then I will have finished my first story. Again, thank you for reviewing._

Love and Obsession

"You are free to go Dr. Rave."

"Amara."

"I'm very sorry Ms. Richards—I wish I could do more."

"Is there any way…?

"Well, Ms. Richards could press charges against Dr. Rave for sexual assault. We will of course appeal, but…well, I wouldn't hope for too much."

"Thank you for trying, Mr. Winters. It…wasn't an easy case."

"I appreciate your generosity, Sgt. Knight—hopefully the rest of your day is better. Ms. Richards?"

"Amara?"

"I suggest you get a restraining order against that doctor. It will be all right."

"Amara…. Don't come any closer, Rave. If you so much as speak to her…"

"Come on, Lucius."

"Amara—Amara, he's gone. Don't shut me out, not again."

When she was very young and still played with dolls and horses, Amara built walls, walls of bricks and blocks and Lincoln logs. They protected her toys. They kept the bad things out—those invisible evils she created, the kind in fairytales. As she got older, she built walls of a different kind. They kept out the world.

"I want to go home, Jonathan." She didn't recognize her own voice.

"Of course—we'll go back to the hotel," Jonathan said, frightened. He lifted her to her feet. She swayed.

"I want to go _home_."

"Yes, yes, we'll go home," Jonathan muttered, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and guiding her out of the courtroom.

_The darkness, that great swallowing darkness, and beyond that a wall far across a mist-covered plain_—"Amara"—_there was girl, shrouded in a long black cloak—_"No, Amara,"—_her eyes opened_—someone was shaking her—_"I am 314."_—"That's enough, Amara. Wake up."

Amara blinked and saw Jonathan's worried face a breath away from her own. Jonathan sat perched on the edge of her bed in her hotel room, holding her. The fear in his eyes scared her. "Jonathan?"

"Amara!" he gasped. Relief infused his face, and he hugged her tightly against his chest, burying his face in her hair. Still feeling numb and empty, Amara reached up and laced one arm around his neck. He raised his head, loosening his grip on her.

"Please don't," she whispered, her hold tightening as if he was the anchor holding her to the world, "Don't let go—don't leave me." She could feel tears threatening and blinked furiously, looking anywhere but at him. _I won't cry—he may have gotten away—but I won't cry._ But a few rebellious tears slipped down her nose and into her lap.

"Amara." Jonathan tipped her face up to his. "I'm staying right here." He kissed her forehead, then her nose, until his lips lightly brushed hers. Amara smiled faintly as he drew back. With a sigh, he rocked her, and she rested her head on his shoulder, listening to him breath. "It'll be all right."

Jonathan held her until her breathing slowed and the arm around his neck went limp and slid into her lap. His shoulder was damp. With her still in his arms, he stood and carried her to the head of the bed, and with one hand, pulled back the covers before he carefully laid her down. In sleep, the premature lines that creased her face were smoothed—she was again that younger, happier girl she had been once. Some of her long, chocolate hair had fallen into her face, and Jonathan smoothed it behind her ear. He withdrew his hand slowly, allowing it to trace the line of her jaw. Her hand reached up and caught his. "Stay," she whispered sleepily, giving his arm a tug. He tried to pull away, but she held fast. Smiling at what Marcus would say, Jonathan lay down on top of the covers, facing her. She rolled onto her stomach and tucked his hand beneath her breast. He moved closer so that their foreheads were almost touching and, for a while, simply watched her sleep—a small smile played about her mouth.

"I love you, Amara," he whispered and closed his eyes.

* * *

So close, so close he could have reached out and touched her. He wanted to—had to—be that close to her again…just once more. The need was like a fever, a flame that seared his skin and made his heart race. All night he'd wandered, trying to outrun reporters and the memory of how she felt when he held her, how her eyes spat emerald fire when she was angry or became a foggy green as she held the body of her dead friend. _One more time—once and forever. _He knew where she was—he'd read the address over and over until he saw it when he closed his eyes: Capital Towers, Room 1361. 

Now, Lucius stood at the hotel entrance gazing up at the massive twin towers that sparkled pink and yellow in morning light. He couldn't remember how long he'd been standing there. His eyes fell to the gold-rimmed glass doors before him. Taking a breath, he pushed open the door and stepped into the lobby. He didn't notice the expensive decorations, the plush red carpet beneath his feet, as he crossed to the front desk. The attractive blue Twilek behind the desk looked up—recognition flashed in her silver eyes, but she gave no other indication that she knew him. She smiled pleasantly. "May I help you, sir?" she asked, her voice as silvery as her eyes.

"Yes. I'd like a room."

"Can you give me a name?"

"I'd rather not."

She nodded. "Capital Towers is known for its discreetness, sir. How many nights will you be staying with us?"

"Just one."

Her fingers flashed across the computer. After a moment, the computer emitted a pleasant tone and a slim card. The Twilek slid it across the counter to him. "Check out is at eleven. You may pay then, sir. Have a pleasant stay."

"I will," he replied with a smirk, taking the card, and headed for the lifts.

The hotel was quiet—most of the residents were still asleep when he stepped off the lift onto her floor. Glancing at the room signs, he turned in the direction of room 1361. There was no one in the halls to stop him, no maid, no porter—no one. The hall seemed to stretch on forever, but she was down there, waiting behind one of those doors. The very thought made him hot. 1361. He stopped in front of her door. The gold numbers winked at him. She was on the other side, perhaps sleeping, dreaming of him. He raised his hand to the red wood and knocked.

* * *

Amara couldn't stop smiling—big, stupid smiles that she was sure made her look like a complete idiot…or nuts. _But I guess I'm already pretty nuts as it is._ She'd woken up in Jonathan's arms, and it didn't seem to matter so much that Dr. Rave was free—she could think about that later. For now, she was happy; giddy with the same reckless joy you feel when you race down a steep hill. Curled in the large, comfy chair by the window, she watched the sun rise—the sky was a wash of pale satin pinks and golds as if some fairytale princess had dropped her dress on the horizon after a night of dancing. Jonathan had gone back to his room to change and contact his squad. 

And then they were going to leave—leave everything behind and sail the stars. Jonathan had said something about asking for additional time on leave and taking her to Corellia, his home planet. _And then, perhaps, we can find Earth._ Anything seemed possible at that moment as the sun broke over the skyscrapers and streamed into the room in silky yellow curtains of light.

There was a knock on the door, and her heart leapt. She practically danced over to the door, doing a little pirouette before she opened it, love lighting her eyes like sunlight through a forest canopy. "Jonathan, I told you to take a…" Her voice died when she saw the man standing in the doorway. She tried to slam the door, but Dr. Rave simply placed one hand the door, forcing it open farther. He stepped into the room. She couldn't scream—his hungry blue eyes held hers, and she was paralyzed. He took another step. The door closed behind him, and the spell was broken. She turned to run—she needed a weapon, anything, the blaster—but his hand snaked out and caught her wrist. She whirled and smashed her fist into his face, but he didn't let go. Instead, he jerked her body up against his and pressed her against the wall. She was pinned.

Dr. Rave leaned down and smelled her hair, the blood from his broken nose matting it. He groaned. "I've missed you, 314."

"Sorry I can't say the same, Herr Doctor."

Rave pinched her chin, forcing her to look up at him. He imagined the glow of her eyes when she opened the door. For one glorious moment, he'd thought that smile was for him, but then…

"Jonathan will…"

He slapped her. "Don't say that fucking bastard's name again," he hissed.

She laughed. "Why jealous?"

With a strangled yell, he crushed his lips against hers. She shrieked into his mouth and jammed her knee into his groin. He doubled-over, gasping, and Amara dashed for the door. _Just get it open—just get out._ But Rave was faster, filled with a mad desperation greater than her own, and he managed to trip her. Amara couldn't catch herself in time, and the air flew from her lungs. She lay stunned and gasping on the floor. Yanking her up, Rave dragged her farther into the room—toward the bed. "No more running, 314." He threw her onto the bed like a doll, and before she could react, something smashed into her shin. She heard the bone snap, but she didn't feel any pain—her heart was racing. She couldn't breath. He crouched over her, the bed sinking under his weight. With his left hand, he grabbed her wrists and forced them above her head; he groped her breasts with his right. "Once more," he panted, grinding himself against her, "Just once more—be mine." One of his legs pressed against her broken shin, and then she felt the cracking, mind-consuming pain. She screamed.

Startled, Dr. Rave loosened his hold on her, and with her strength waning, she managed to shove him away and crawl to the edge of the bed. He followed. Dodging his grasping hands, she slid off the bed and hobbled towards the dresser. _The top drawer—the blaster—end it._ The bed creaked behind her as he got off it. She wrenched open the drawer and thrust her hand inside. Rave's hand closed on her shoulder. She couldn't feel the blaster. _The darkness that swallowed you—not whole, but piece by piece until—_the door slammed open. Amara saw the doctor turn—and then red bolts tore into his chest, propelling him backwards, away from her. Jonathan stormed into the room, firing. Dr. Rave was already on the floor, jerking as each shot burned through him—Jonathan wasn't shooting to kill but to torture. A bolt struck his left shoulder, his hip, his knee…and then Rave looked at her. He was dying. A shot to stomach—"Stop," she whispered—to the groin—_Not like this, not like Amy—_to the arm—_not like RL-213_—"Stop," she said, louder. But Jonathan couldn't hear her; rage and hatred and fear were pumping through his system. "Jonathan, _stop!_ Please, stop!" she sobbed, grabbing his arm.

His last shot went wide. He lowered his blaster slowly, but did not look at her. "Amara, this is Rave—he…"

"I know," she swallowed hard, and her eyes fell again on Dr. Rave. He was alive—hanging on by the last threads. "I know." Her leg trembled beneath her, ready to give out. She grasped the open drawer, her knuckles white, and took a step forward.

Rave's eyes were clouded and stared, unseeing, in her direction. The fingers on his hand twitched as if he were trying to raise it. His mouth opened, but all that came out was shallow gasp. But when she stepped closer, he regained some of his lucidity. Again the electric cord snapped between them. He saw her: eyes misty green, tears trailing down her cheeks, and he imagined those tears were for him. The world darkened.

Amara watched him die—his eyes glazed over; his body sagged. She felt nothing.

But he kept his worthless eyes on her. She was a blur in his vision, but she was there. _She smiled when she opened the door—she let me hold her._ He drew in one last rattling breath. "Amara…I ...I love…." The breath was gone. His eyes closed. Dr. Rave was dead.


	24. Across the Stars

_**Author's Note:** "Clarity of mind means clarity of passion, too; this is why a great and clear mind loves ardently and sees distinctly what it loves." Blaise Pascal_

_"Absence is to love what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small, it enkindles the great." __Comte DeBussy-Rabutin_

Across the Stars

A faint light from the illuminated city drifted through the sheer, limp curtains around the window of her hospital room when Amara awoke. She looked over at Jonathan sleeping in the drab brown chair by her bed, his head cocked at an uncomfortable angle. _I'm awake and still dreaming._ Not quite suppressing a smile, she pushed off the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her left leg was wrapped, and she gingerly tested her weight on it before standing. _It's amazing I don't just fall apart._ She limped toward a dresser at the other end of the room, putting as little pressure on her leg as possible and hoping that her clothes were in there—the mint green drape she was wearing hung off her slim shoulders like a tent. She was halfway there when:

"You're not supposed to walk on that leg for another day or two."

"I'm just getting some decent clothes," Amara replied, feeling like a teenager caught sneaking out as she hobbled the rest of the way to the dresser. She slid open a drawer. Her clothes lay neatly folded on the bottom. Jonathan's warm hand closed over hers and pressed the drawer shut. Amara threw him a dirty look and huffed, wondering how he managed to move so silently, as she tried to yank the drawer open again, but he was stronger than her. Giving up, she turned to face him, sighing, "Jonathan, please…" But her plea turned into a shriek as he swept her into his arms and carried her back to the bed. "Jonathan! What are you doing?"

"Enforcing the doctor's orders."

"I can walk," she replied indignantly.

"Right," Jonathan said and let go of her for a moment so that she had to grab his shoulders to keep from falling. He laughed.

"If I'm so fragile, you should treat me with more respect."

Jonathan laid her on the bed, leaning forward to kiss her lightly, before sitting on the mattress edge. "Don't plan on me waiting on you hand and foot."

"Of course not, sergeant, you may be my sedan, but Marcus will serve me breakfast in bed, and Beloda can fetch the newspaper."

"I'll be sure to inform them of their new duties," he said and reached out to lace his fingers with hers.

Amara bit her lip on another one of those goofy grins she'd been prone to lately. He squeezed her hand. An airspeeder flashed past the window, it's headlights casting shadows on the wall and throwing Jonathan's face into brilliant relief, darkness clinging to the edges. His eyes smoldered. And a whisper of disquiet stirred in Amara's heart—she wished he hadn't been the one to kill Dr. Rave, wished she had never seen the cruelty in his eyes as he'd tortured Rave to death. In that moment, she saw him, captured forever in the blinding white light of the airspeeder, the white knight's armor stained red with blood, the blue-black eyes that had seen too much of life and death, felt the comforting presence of his hand in hers, and knew she loved him. The light passed. The room dimmed.

"Ask me," she said, her eyes locking with his.

She felt him tense. "Ask what?"

A knowing smirk played about her mouth. "Where I'm from."

The relief was evident in his voice: "Where are you from?"

Amara leaned back against the headboard and looked out the window at the city that may have been New York. She was faraway from that place, on the porch of an old bungalow under elms, staring up at a blue sky so wide you could trip and fall up into its azure waves—storm clouds, struck purple and orange by the sun, were building on the horizon. "Earth."

* * *

Amara's breathing was slow and regular, her face composed in sleep, as the first fresh light of dawn broke through the silver skyscrapers to kiss her pale face. Jonathan leaned against the wall across the room, arms crossed over his chest, watching the sunrise and imagining another sun rising over a lonely little blue-green planet, swirling with white clouds, that didn't know anyone else existed. A planet untouched by the universe—that's what Rave had wanted from her initially. And she'd protected it—protected a home that probably hadn't noticed she was missing. Jonathan turned to look at her prone form. The starriness of her eyes, her voice when she spoke of Earth (_"Not the most original name, I know," she laughed_)—she was homesick, and he wished he knew a way to take her home, but that was near impossible. She knew that—"a needle in a haystack," she'd called it. She hadn't told him everything yet, but it was a start, and they had talked well into the early hours of the morning until he had insisted she sleep. 

_"Ask me."_ Jonathan smiled ruefully at his reaction to her request—he'd thought…well, it'd been a ridiculous thought, but even now his chest tightened when he replayed her whispered words in his head:

_Amara hung on the edges of sleep. "Jonathan," she sighed, her eyes closed, "When I said 'ask me' you thought I…meant 'ask me to marry you'…?"_

_"Yes."_

_She smiled. "Would," she yawned, "would you have…asked…me?"_

_He waited until she was asleep before answering: "Yes."_

There was a light rap on the door. He glanced at Amara—she was still asleep—before striding silently to the door which glided open before he reached it, flooding the room with harsh, manufactured light. Marcus stood silhouetted in the doorway, his usually carefree face serious. A sliver of dread threaded it's way around Jonathan's heart as he followed Marcus out into the sterile hospital hallway, closing the door behind him.

"What is it?" he asked, but he already knew the answer.

"We've been pulled off leave," Marcus replied, his voice flat.

_Dammit._ Jonathan ran a hand through his black hair, unconsciously glancing in the direction of Amara. "How long do I have?"

Marcus shook his head and laid a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Briefing's in an hour, and from what I understand, we leave directly from there."

"What's happened?"

"I don't know, sergeant."

Jonathan closed his eyes, blocking out Marcus and the lights and the knowledge that the woman he loved was sleeping a few steps away. He took a deep breath as if he were about to dive into the ocean, and straightened his shoulders. He knew what he had to do. "Go on ahead, Marcus. I'll catch up." Marcus nodded, pity registering in his brown eyes, before he turned and walked slowly down the hallway.

Jonathan opened Amara's door and closed it behind him. The dreamy morning light that filled the room didn't touch him—he was a shadow among shadows as he moved beside her bed. Amara stirred in her sleep. He knelt so that their faces were level and tenderly ran his fingers through her hair and down her face. She opened her eyes, still dewy with sleep, and smiled.

"Good morning," she said and bit her lip, her cheeks pink. Jonathan found he couldn't answer, his thumb kept skimming the curve of her mouth. She frowned and caught his hand in both of hers. "Jonathan, what's wrong?" A hot lump rose in his throat. The movement was instinctual, the last cry of his heart screaming that he needed her, and he stood, pulling her up with him, and hugged her to his chest. She clung to him, her eyes teary, afraid of what she didn't know.

"I've been pulled off leave, Amara."

"What? Where are you going?"

"I haven't been briefed yet." Jonathan leaned back so that he could see her face. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line as she struggled to keep her emotions in control, to be brave. They both knew that missions the Knights were assigned to were especially dangerous and uncertain. Until now, Jonathan had never considered what would happen if he died.

"When?" she whispered, not looking at him.

"Now." He felt her tremble, but the gray-green eyes that rose to his were dark and resigned. Her brave smile cracked. A small sob broke past her lips. And he kissed her for what could be the last time.

"I love you," he said against her mouth when they pulled apart. The corners of her mouth twitched upward in a mirthless smile.

"I know."

* * *

Amara lay awake, curled on her side on the small bed in her darkened quarters aboard the _Seeker II_. The cell-like room had no windows—the darkness was broken only by the faint blue glow of the clock, lending the surroundings a ghostly look of unreality. The crushing tightness in her chest was gone: it'd died with Dr. Rave, but the memory remained along with a rekindled longing for home. She'd known enough pain—enough death—and now, as she listened to the hum of the ship, the footsteps passing her door, new fears gnawed at her, like a needles under her skin. Earth and home were only dreams, and even if those wildest of dreams came to pass, and she found her home planet, what if it wasn't home anymore? _Where do I belong? And Jonathan—Jonathan…was gone. _She tried to push that thought away as she had for the past week, but the voice in her head would not be silenced. _It was a dream. _Amara's eyes burned. She was glad the light was blue. 

There in the dark, surrounded by a ship's-worth of people, and utterly alone, the realities of her situation washed over her in waves. There was no villain to fight, no castle in the sky, no love everlasting, just the harsh, unforgiving universe—a universe she didn't belong in. _I have no money, no home…nothing._ She pressed her face into her already damp pillow, holding back her sobs until it seemed her throat would tear apart. _I don't know where he is. I don't know if he's alive or hurt or dead._

The orders had come a week ago, only a day after Jonathan had wrapped her in his arms and turned her away from the gruesome sight of Dr. Rave's corpse and told her it was over (Amara choked on her tears as she remembered the love in his eyes—unguarded, unchecked—when he'd looked at her.). He'd left her lost and stranded in the middle of a hospital bed, and when the nurse had come in with her breakfast, Amara had announced that she wanted to leave.

_"Of course, dear, once Doctor Kranlik gives the okay," the alien nurse said, setting the breakfast tray on the bed._

_"Then could you please get him."_

_"Doctor Kranlik is…"_

_"I don't care," Amara cut in, her voice ice, "Get him now."_

_"Of course I will, dear," the nurse replied consolingly, "Just calm down."_

_When the doctor did arrive, he was quick to insist that Amara stay at least one more day, and threatened to keep her there by force if she didn't cooperate. "And now that that's settled, we must discuss the subject of payment…" Amara's stomach dropped. She had no money, no insurance (if they even had that here). The doctor must have seen the terror cross her face because he was quick to add: "You'll be happy to know that Sgt. Knight has already taken care of your medical expenses, so you have nothing to worry about…"_

Amara laughed into her pillow, a desperate, strangled sound. _Nothing to worry about._ She reached beneath her pillow and withdrew a small black disk. She pressed the button on edge, and a miniature Jonathan stood in the palm of her hand. His voice filled the room. _Sunlight on an endless black plain._

"Amara, I've spoken with Vice Admiral Harris, and he's agreed to let you stay in my quarters aboard the Belkadan base. Also, there's a scientist there mapping the Unknown Regions. You should talk to him about Earth. I'll meet you there."

The message fizzled and died. The darkness in its wake was complete. But clutched in Amara's hand was a spark of hope.

* * *

_**A/N:** It's the end of The Last Prisoner but certainly not the end of Jonathan and Amara. When I started the story, I didn't expect to write a sequel, but things happened (especially in this last chapter) that made it inevitable. I'm going to take a break from writing for a while and recharge before I start Star-crossed._


End file.
